


Of Hurt And Hope

by JestersTear



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Abuse Aftermath, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, DA Kink Meme, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Drama, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kink Meme, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Rape, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-10-30 07:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10871547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JestersTear/pseuds/JestersTear
Summary: The guilt from Cullen's past in Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall weighs heavily on him, and feelings of unworthiness prevent him from accepting the advances of a mage Trevelyan. Gabriel Trevelyan believes that the rejection was because Cullen wasn't interested in men, and pursues a close friendship with him instead.Meanwhile a rather angry Hawke comes to Skyhold, and decides to exact revenge on a self-loathing Cullen in a terrible way.What will Gabriel do once he learns the truth?





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in reply to two DA kink meme prompts over two years ago. Back then I only posted the prologue, and I had the ambitious idea to write two simultaneous fics, one from Cullen's POV and one from the Inquisitor's, that could be read separately and still make sense.
> 
> As it turns out, much of what was holding me back from posting this was that I didn't - still don't - really want to rewrite every single scene from another POV, but as I'd committed to it, I kept trying. 
> 
> Meanwhile I was plotting my Boundless series and I had the - rather unrealistic, knowing myself - goal of finishing at least Restless before moving on to this. The problem with that being that, especially of late, this tale demanded to be written, and I couldn't let go of it enough to concentrate on Restless.
> 
> And so I've decided to just post this now, as with all the writing I've been doing it's more than half done, and to just write a story. Some scenes - the ones I deem warrant it - will be from both POVs, but most will be one or the other. 
> 
> \---
> 
> WARNINGS: there is mention of major character death in what will likely be chapter 3. It isn't an Inquisition character (and I can also say that it isn't Anders or Fenris because I could never do that to them) but it is a major character who died offscreen in this fic. I didn't put it in the tags because I didn't want anyone to shy away from this fic thinking, for example, Cullen would die. 
> 
> There will be a second, non-Inquisition character death once we reach Adamant, of course. 
> 
> Most of the trigger-y tags in this fic - ie Rape, Self-Harm - will be because of that chapter. You'll get a non-graphic retelling of the rape later on, and the self-harm effects will also become apparent, so it is possible to skip that chapter and still fully understand the story. I'll warn you before said chapter, in case you'd prefer to skip it, and I'll mark it with *** in the title. 
> 
> \---
> 
> ON REVIEWS: I love reviews, I thrive on them, and the more concrit the better. I have a rather thick skin, so hit me with your unfiltered thoughts, I'll be delighted.  
> However. As much as I'd love to reply to every review - and, at one point, I did - I ended up realising that when I made a habit of it I would put off writing the actual fic until I had a worthy reply to everyone. I didn't want anyone to feel they were talking to a wall but, because of the way I'm wired, it ended up meaning more than a year without new updates. Eventually I stopped replying and started writing again, and while I hate that I barely reply to reviews these days - while other authors whom I admire seem to do so effortlessly - it also means I'm writing, so I hope you don't mind the trade-off. I also - rather selfishly - hope it won't stop you from reviewing. 
> 
> Phew. That was the longest author's note of my life.

**Gabriel Trevelyan**

_"I would value your friendship. I'm afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you'll understand."_

Those had been the words that had crushed his dreams. He couldn't even remember what he'd replied, but the heartache he'd felt was far too real. Cullen was trying to tell him there was no possibility of him ever reciprocating his affections. Trying to politely convey that there wasn't half a chance for the Herald to win his heart because he was, simply put, the wrong gender.

On the outside he had shrugged it off with a smile. Tried - as far as he knew, successfuly - to pass it off as mere flirting, nothing of consequence. On the inside he was torn to shreds. He'd had no defence against Cullen's easy charm and warm smile, hadn't been expecting to fall so hard and so fast for the Commander of the Inquisition's forces, and when he'd realised what had happened it had been far past too late.

Cullen's first response to his overtures had been promising, if embarassed enough, and Gabriel had hoped... He thought he might have a chance. For someone as suave as he was supposed to be he had resorted to following the Commander around like a lost puppy, trying to talk to him as often as he could, and Cullen had humoured him, for a while. Until that talk in the courtyard.

All there had been left to do, after Cullen's gentle but unmistakeable rebuff, had been to resign himself to feeling like that for a very long time. He had been a bit of a player at the Circle, and during the occasional visits home. He enjoyed sex and he was _good_ at it. Love was a different matter. He'd only dared to love once - curiously enough, a Templar as well - but had never found the courage to act. It was probably why he'd been so determined to not let his chance with Cullen slip away, to not make the same mistake twice. He knew his own heart well enough to understand that, once he'd fallen in love, it would take years for the longing he felt for the former Templar to fade enough that he might entertain the hope of falling in love again.

In the meantime, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he had gained a true and steadfast friend. Cullen's words hadn't been hollow platitudes, designed to soothe the blow of rejection, they had been, quite simply, the truth. The Commander did value the Herald's friendship - no, it was more than that: _Cullen_ valued _Gabriel_ : no family names, no titles. Cullen was as loyal a friend as he could ever have asked for, and he had no right to resent what the other man could not offer.

* * *

**Cullen Rutherford**

The first time it happened he had been caught unprepared. He had been talking with the Herald - _Gabriel_ \- at the training grounds in Haven, and had gotten caught up in his own enthusiasm over what the Inquisition could accomplish where the Chantry had failed. He'd apologised once he'd realised how long his rant had become, but Gabriel's reply - and, more than that, his _tone_ \- suggested he'd be interested in a lot more than a lecture.

Cullen had immediately been reduced to a blubbering fool, a transparent excuse regarding too much work on his lips. It wasn't until later that night that it hit him that he'd left an open door for Gabriel to try again. _"Another time, perhaps,"_ he'd told the Herald. He shouldn't have.

Gabriel had been a bit infamous in the Circle, having cheerful trysts with both mages and Templars - enough so that the tales had reached him in Kirkwall, where Meredith had promptly declared the Ostwick circle to be a foul pit of perversion, if even the Templars were so easily corrupted by their charges - and his status as a noble whose family had not shunned him had given him both the protection and the allure to pull off that sort of behaviour, the fact that he was a mage for once only adding to his roguish charm. Cullen hadn't given him a second thought until actually meeting the man and realising first hand how magnetic his presence truly was. It had been relatively easy to ignore, however, until that day in Haven.

And then it had become all he could think of.

Gabriel seemed to have made a point of engaging him after that. He'd hang around at the war table after a meeting, materialise right in front of Cullen when he was exiting his tent, sit next to him at dinner, green eyes alight with whatever topic they were discussing, gesticulating enthusiastically, and it was impossible not to love him. The Chosen One, the Herald of Andraste, Lord Trevelyan. Just Gabriel.

Andraste preserve him, but his traitorous heart sped every time he caught a glimpse of tanned skin and green eyes. He hadn't shut down Gabriel's attempts because, in truth, he was utterly besotted with the man, and he didn't want to give up the fantasy just yet.

He had never... _been_ with anyone, not physically at least. The demons in Ferelden had... done _things_ to him, but once he'd been rescued his body showed no proof. It had all been in his mind. After that he hadn't wanted to be with anyone - not until Gabriel.

And, had Cullen allowed him to, he would have shown him pleasure the likes of which the former Templar had never known. To have the chance to spend a night in Gabriel's bed, to have his first true experience be with someone he held so dearly... Were he anything other than a mage and Cullen wouldn't have found it within him to resist. He was barely able to, but a mage... not after what he'd wanted for the Ferelden Circle; not after everything he'd seen done in Kirkwall without lifting a finger. He wasn't worthy of polishing Gabriel's boots, let alone of sharing his bed.

He had put it off long enough. Gabriel found him once more on the training grounds, asked him if there had been anyone special back in Kirkwall. If he knew what kind of a man Cullen had been, he wouldn't ask. And so, with a heavy heart, he spoke plainly so that there would be no misunderstandings.

_"I would value your friendship. I'm afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you'll understand."_

And, surprisingly, Gabriel did understand. He understood and ceased his flirting immediately, but he didn't stop talking to him outside the scope of the Inquisition. He took him at face value. He became his _friend_. Cullen had had precious few of those and, even though he knew he was being selfish, even though he knew he had no right, he couldn't bring himself to give up Gabriel's friendship. This one precious thing he'd keep for himself. At least just a little longer.


	2. Two

**Cullen Rutherford**

Skyhold was a sight to behold - it would elevate the Inquisition, garner respect, become a symbol for the one institution that had the good of Thedas at heart, rather than petty squables - but Cullen couldn't let go of the people they'd lost in Haven. _His fault._ He was the commander, he should have had a plan, a better one than "let's have siege equipment laying around in case someone decides to lay siege to us". 

Instead he'd become complacent - relied on the fact that they were fighting a hole in the sky, rather than a general - and lives had been lost. Too many lives. And one of those lives - he shuddered to think of it - one of those lives could have been Gabriel.

Gabriel, who had stayed behind to offer them all safe passage and had fully expected to die. He couldn't let go of that moment, of having stood in front of Gabriel, beautiful, glorious Gabriel, and having wanted nothing more than to trade places with him. To die protecting him, as would have been both his duty and his honour. But they both knew the thing at the gates had come for Gabriel, and if it found Cullen instead none of the town's people would make it to safety in time. And so, like a coward, he left. And he thought - he feared - Gabriel had been lost forever. 

Everyone had told him to let go, to give up the search. That their Herald couldn't be anything but dead after so long in the snow. Yet Cullen wouldn't, couldn't stop until he'd found Gabriel. Or at the very least his body. 

But he'd been alive. Nearly dead, collapsing in the snow, his staff useless and broken, but _alive_. Cullen's faith in the Maker felt renewed as he carried Gabriel into their makeshift camp.

He hadn't managed to control his emotions as well as he'd hoped that night and, before he even knew how, he was in a fight with Josephine and Leliana, assigning blame left and right even though he knew the blame was his alone.

Later, in his tent, away from prying eyes, Cullen had shed tears of joy. Gabriel was _alive_.

* * *

**Gabriel Trevelyan**

All in all, it had been a rather remarkable week, even if Cassandra was intent on finding a dozen different ways to slaughter Varric. The dwarf had known where Hawke was the entire time. Gabriel didn't know whether to be impressed or amused. Most likely both. 

Also, relieved. 

If Hawke had been around before, Gabriel would never have been made leader of the Inquisition. And, even as Herald, Hawke would have found a way to make Gabriel useful by closing rifts left and right, nothing more. He'd known the man for a week and already he could see how he positively reeked of authority. People did whatever he told them almost by instinct. Chaos would place itself in order if Hawke willed it. It was little wonder Cassandra had wanted him to lead. 

But, if Gabriel hadn't been the Inquisitor, if there had been someone as capable as Hawke in charge even back in Haven, he wouldn't have had the chance to grow this close to Cullen. There would have been no War Room meetings, no late nights, no shared camaraderie. And Gabriel would have missed it dearly even if he could never be anything else to Cullen. 

He was glad he was the Inquisitor. Hawke was doing fine just being the Champion. 

It was rather late, he had to make decisions as to where to go next and he wanted to sort it out before going to sleep, but his mind kept drifting instead of looking at the parchments in front of him. 

He needed backup. 

Parchments in hand he snuck in the kitchen to grab a pair of mugs of ale. If he was going to beg Cullen for help he might as well bring bribes. 

Despite the lateness of the hour he was fairly certain the former Templar was still awake but, if he wasn't, his door would be locked, so Gabriel wouldn't risk waking him. 

He had to hold the parchments with his lips to use one hand to try the handle, the mugs dancing perilously on his other hand. To his delight he found it unlocked.

He took the parchments back in hand, to be able to speak, and began talking even before he was inside, his back leaning on the door to allow him entry. 

"Cullen, can you help me go over some of these? I brought mead to bribe you with to help my- _oh_."

Cullen was awake, alright. He was awake and _naked_ , thankfully behind his desk. 

And Hawke, in full armour - the man hadn't even taken off his _gauntlets_! - was taking him from behind, completely unfazed by Gabriel's entrance. He averted his eyes, couldn't look at either of them, couldn't think past the sickening not-quite-slap of metal on flesh. 

Trying to salvage what was left of his dignity he swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat and apologised.

"I am terribly sorry for the intrusion, Commander. Hawke. I would suggest you lock the door next time. Carry on."

And he turned and fled, leaving half of his soul on the floor of Cullen's office. 

His mind didn't even register what he was doing until he'd downed both mugs of ale and promptly thrown them from the battlements, his parchments only barely escaping the same fate.

Cullen had said he didn't like… _Gabriel_. That was the only thing he had said. What sort of a conceited imbecile took that to mean the other man didn't enjoy the company of men, he didn't know. Himself, apparently.

He had to regain some distance from Cullen, as soon as possible, or he'd make a fool of himself.

Abandoning the idea of making any Inquisition-related decisions before sleeping he made for his quarters, his footsteps almost as heavy as his heart. 

And the unrelenting image of Hawke fully armoured pounding a naked Cullen and not even reacting to his abrupt entrance wouldn't let go of him. 

How could they… Not even his gauntlets… 

He was being a hypocrite, and he was projecting. He'd done plenty of sexually-related things that would have horrified others, and both him and his partners had always thoroughly enjoyed them. Taking someone while in armour was tame.

Come to think of it, he'd once quite enjoyed going down on a naked Templar - while he, himself had his raging erection hidden inside his full robes - while the Revered Mother slept right next door. Said Templar hadn't been able to hold the woman's gaze for a week after that. Granted, his robes had been leather and fabric, not metal, but that was beside the point. How could he fault Cullen and Hawke for also being creative with their preferences? 

It was just… Hawke had seemed cold. Not playful, just cold. And Cullen had been as focused as when he was planning troop movements, at least for the brief moment when Gabriel had dared to look at his face. But if he was into that sort of thing, who was Gabriel to pass judgement? 

Just because he… Just because he had imagined it so differently when he had cast himself in the role Hawke had ultimately fulfilled - just because he had pictured kissing every inch of Cullen's body, worshipping it, making love to him face to face, skin on skin, watching the other man come undone - it didn't mean Cullen and Hawke had to share his preferences. 

And it didn't mean they _didn't_ share them either. He had no idea what else they had done, or if there had been plenty of lovemaking already that week - that _day_ , even - and they were only mixing it up, keeping it interesting. 

He knew nothing, other the fact that it was _him_ Cullen didn't want, not men in general.

Sleep didn't come at all that night and, when the first light of dawn graced his window, he got up. He hadn't gotten any work done the previous night, he needed to make up for it.

And, if he wondered if Cullen was waking up safely ensconced in his lover's arms back in his tower, he firmly stomped down on that errant thought. It was no business of his whose arms Cullen chose to wake up in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will contain the non con scene. If you would prefer to skip it, there will be an edited retelling of it later.


	3. Three***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. This chapter is where this story earns every warning tag - non-con, self-harm, mention of character death and an enormous amount of angst - and it is possible to skip it. It's entirely from Cullen's perspective.

Crossing paths with Hawke unsettled him. There was no other word for it. The Champion's presence left him unsettled, a painful reminder of the ten years of his life Cullen most wished to forget. Curious, then, that Varric's presence had no such effect; perhaps because Hawke had always been overtly in the thick of things, while Varric was a more subtle player? No matter. Unsettled or not, he could be courteous enough to not let it show. 

It would just have to do. 

It was late - so late that he had already shed his armour and was methodically sorting through reports and personnel requisitions in only a tunic and plain trousers - and he wasn't expecting visitors. Yet, when he heard his door open and close he was so engrossed in a report that it took him a minute to look up. As if summoned by his thoughts Hawke was there, a coldness behind his eyes that chilled Cullen to the core. 

"Hello, Commander. It _is_ Commander these days, isn't it?"

"Yes," he replied curtly, eager to get the meeting over with, "May I be of assistance?"

"Such a loftier title than Knight-Captain, wouldn't you say," Hawke carried on as if he hadn't heard him, "leader of the Inquisition's forces. It _commands_ respect, if you'll pardon the pun." 

Cullen was feeling decidedly uncomfortable. 

"Was there anything you needed?"

Hawke approached his desk slowly and then placed both hands on the desk, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Tell me, _Commander_ : have you _commanded_ a lot of people to their deaths lately?"

He felt the force of the Champion's words as if he'd been punched in the gut. _Haven_. 

"I... Yes. Haven's defence was my responsibility."

"Oh, isn't this _fun_? Here we are, reunited, and I find you haven't changed one bit!"

Cullen wanted to say something - anything - but he had no reasons, no excuses to offer. Haven had been his responsibility, its people had trusted him to defend them and he'd failed them. Would have failed them even more thoroughly if it hadn't been for Gabriel's bravery and Chancellor Roderick's Summer Pilgrimage. He remained silent. 

"And these people you commanded to their deaths, did you take pains to recruit them to your cause yourself while their siblings were away trying to provide them with a better life? Or is that a thing from the past now that you've become so important?"

"...What?"

"You know, like you did with my brother! Carver Hawke, remember him? Stubborn, pig-headed, sullen brunette? Always acts as if the world owes him something, has trouble following orders but can be loyal to a fault? Or did you do the same to so many others you can't even recall him?"

Of course Cullen remembered Carver Hawke, although he'd never had a problem with him following orders. He'd recruited him when Hawke had left for his infamous Deep Roads expedition while making his brother stay behind. It had seemed to him then as if he'd helped give the younger man's life the purpose that it lacked, and he had proven to be a fine Templar. Carver Hawke had served under him in Kirkwall for years. 

"I do recall your brother. He-"

"Oh you do," Hawke interrupted, "so was it just temporarily that you forgot him? When you left him behind in Kirkwall so you could accept your very important new position?"

The vitriol in Hawke's tone, while baffling, was beginning to get on his nerves. 

"Your brother is a grown man, Hawke. Yes, I recruited him into the Order, but he went of his own volition. I did not coerce him or lie to him. I also did not adopt him, for you to accuse me of leaving him behind in Kirkwall. He's entitled to lead his life the way he sees fit."

Hawke's angry face was suddenly inches from his own, his voice so low with rage and hurt Cullen had to make an effort to make out the words. 

"He _has_ no life to lead. You left him behind and he became a Red Templar like the rest of them. He'd turned into a behemoth by the time I found him - he could no longer even speak. I had to kill my own brother because you couldn't leave well enough alone and had to recruit him for the precious Order you abandoned."

Everything left him as soon as it had come, his unease, his annoyance... One more death he was responsible for. Could he have made it better? Had he asked Carver Hawke to leave Kirkwall with him to join the Inquisition, would he have followed? Would any of them in those uncertain times? Would _Samson_ have followed and, if so, would Corypheus have found a suitable general in time? And if he had managed to persuade Gabriel to recruit the Templars instead of the mages to help him close the Breach, how many of his former Order mates would have been saved? There was no end to the blood on his hands. He'd saved himself at the expense of countless others. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. 

"There are no words to convey my regret, Hawke. If there is anything I can do, anything at all..."

"What? What could you do that you have imagined would lessen the death of my brother? Get down on your knees, _Commander_? Kiss my boots, perhaps? Is that a part of the _anything_ you would purportedly do? Would that make up for the loss of _your_ brother if it were the other way around?"

Of course not. There was nothing, nothing Cullen could do to minimise the suffering he had wrought. 

"Forgive me, I-"

Hawke circled the desk with the ability and intent of a predator, standing uncomfortably close to the Commander and silencing him with two hate-filled words. 

" _Do it._ " 

He looked at Hawke, stunned into silence. The cold hatred in the Champion's eyes prompted him to do as he was told. If Hawke believed this would ameliorate a fraction of his grief then Cullen owed him that much.

On his knees before the mage he bowed and kissed the other man's boot, the metal cold against his lips, humiliation washing through him. 

"Now the other one."

He complied, looking for all intents and purposes like a supplicant before a king. Hawke's booted foot rose and slid softly along his face, a parody of a caress, sharp edges just on the verge of breaking open his skin.

"Good. There you go. Good boy. Now, where's my brother?"

Cullen's eyes shot up, confusion warring with humiliation. Hawke kept talking, his voice soft and low. 

"You've gone down on your knees, kissed my feet, that's supposed to make everything alright, isn't it? So where's Carver, healthy and alive, now that you've fixed everything? Where's my brother, _Commander_?"

He opened his mouth to reply, not really knowing what to say, but Hawke pulled him swiftly to his feet and punched him in the gut with his right hand, gauntleted fist making Cullen double over in pain and knocking the breath out of him. He could have fought back. He didn't. 

"Don't you dare say a word. Not one word, you murderer, or so help me, I won't be held accountable for my actions."

The Champion's left hand came up underneath Cullen's chin, bare fingers grazing his neck in warning. The former Templar felt paralysed. Had Hawke resorted to blood magic he'd have known how to act, but he had no defence against this, a mage using only his words and fists as weapons. 

He hadn't expected the rest, hadn't expected Hawke to turn him around to face the desk, to slam his forearms against the flat surface, and to press up behind him, the fabric of Cullen's tunic getting caught in the Champion's mantle where the breastplate met it and tearing a little. Hadn't expected Hawke to whisper in his ear with that same soft, hate-filled voice. 

"His body was twisted into something so grotesque I barely recognised him. My own brother and I barely recognised him. All because of _you_."

The tunic got caught in the breastplate again and Hawke grabbed it with both hands and tore it apart, enraged with the distraction. Then it was Cullen's naked back getting nicked by the mantle when the Champion pressed close once more.

How could Cullen fight back when he so richly deserved it? 

How many mages had felt just as powerless as he did now back in the Gallows? Worse than what he felt now, with the casual threat of Tranquility looming over their heads? While he stood by and did nothing, while he got down on his knees and prayed for guidance rather than acting, while he fooled himself into believing the rumours were false, started by someone intent on sowing dissent? He should have protected them, but hadn't. Why should he protect himself now? 

"You fled back here to your cushy job and your Inquisition while everyone else died." His voice broke. "While my _brother_ died." A sob. "Worse than that, while he _lived_ , twisted and suffering, as that _thing_ you led him to become. Have you any idea what he went through? What it is to have your own body turned against you?"

"Hawke-"

What little self control Hawke still seemed to possess vanished with Cullen's single utterance. Cullen was shoved impossibly close to the desk and the Champion's hands pulled on the former Templar's trousers until they, too, tore along with his underthings, their remains pooling on the floor around his ankles.

"I'll show you an inkling of what that's like."

Cullen's mind was screaming, begging, pleading Hawke to stop, to not go through with this madness, that it wouldn't help anything, but it was as if his throat had closed up and no words came out.

He heard, as if he were a casual observer, the sound of Hawke unfastening his belt, taking his own member out. Felt it stiffening against his backside. 

This couldn't be happening. Maker please, this had to be a nightmare. He'd so often thought of going to Gabriel's quarters, of giving himself to the Inquisitor even if only for the novelty of having a virgin Templar to play with, just one night to indulge in his deepest wish, and Hawke was going to take that away. 

And he deserved it. 

Deserved it for what had happened to Carver, to the Order, to the mages under his care in Kirkwall. Deserved it for having had the audacity to still want to go to Gabriel despite everything he'd allowed to be done to mages in his life. Deserved all of this and more. He remained pliant, accepting his punishment.

Hawke's gauntleted palm pressed down on his back, splaying him against the desk, his arse jutting out. Something in his complacency seemed to infuriate the Champion, whose tone had grown even more vicious.

"I'm going to take you dry. I'm going to take you dry and it's going to tear you inside, and then maybe you'll know a little of what he went through."

_Cullen on his knees in a cage made of magic. Seductive whispers of demons for days, promises of untold pleasure, everything he could ever want and more, all denied. Hoping for death. His friends being murdered all around him, Maker, why had they singled him out to live? And then the demons deciding that, if he wasn't going to break, they might as well bend him, and they had weeks to do it._

_The long horn of a desire demon penetrating him, taking him dry, first chaffing then tearing, burning, cutting, his once tight hole so wide and gaping now, he would never walk upright again, the damage to his body too extensive-_

That had all been only in his mind. A trick of the demons, felt but not actually there, a construct to torment him with. 

This was real. 

Panic set in. He deserved it, but he couldn't let Hawke take him dry, not dry, not dry, not dry, and please, please, anything, anything but that, not dry-

It was only when he heard a malicious chuckle that he realised he was speaking aloud, almost chanting the words as a prayer.

"Not dry, you say? Very well," Hawke turned the former Templar's face to the side, to better look at him, "I'll give you a choice. I can take you dry..." 

His chest heaved again, terror wanting to claw its way out of his gut, a keening sound that still resembled his mantra of "not dry" and "please" and "I'll do anything." 

"... Or I can prepare you. With lyrium. And you are so much luckier than Carver that yours will be the finest dwarven-mined, blue, mage grade lyrium coin can buy. Carver's was _red_."

The fog of terror was pierced by the alluring song of the little blue bottle Hawke had produced from his half-discarded belt. A ray of liquid hope... And his damnation. How did Hawke even know to torment him with this? Not even Gabriel knew he hadn't been taking lyrium.

"Going once."

If Hawke used lyrium it would get in his system. Perhaps faster than drinking it. It would be a terrible relapse and, were he a stronger man, he would not consider it. 

"Going twice."

But... To be torn so badly that he couldn't walk, to be so damaged that the chamber pot was an ordeal, to lose control of his bodily functions... _And the demon's horn going deeper and wider and faster, stabbing and tearing, and-_

"Aaaand-"

"Lyrium," he cut across Hawke's gleeful voice, " _please_. Use lyrium."

"Sold, to the naked murdering addict!"

The Champion unstoppered the flask. After so long abstaining, even the smell of lyrium was overpowering, a craving so deep inside his gut while his mind rebelled, calling him weak and a coward. He willed himself to wake up despite knowing this was no nightmare. 

Hawke made a show of coating the fingers of his left hand in the blue liquid, of pressing them inside him - his first contact with lyrium in _so long_ \- fast and hard and rough, and _too much_ , and then all too soon it was the blunt tip of the Champion's lyrium-coated cock pressing inside, so rough, he'd never been so full, and it hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_. 

Something tore inside him and Hawke's passage was easier after that, even as it burned. The lyrium was in his bloodstream now, but dry would have been worse. He'd torn, but not as badly. He wouldn't be left an invalid.

Without any kind of warning his nose was pinched shut, the remainder of the blue liquid shoved down his throat as he parted his lips to draw breath, and his mouth covered by an unyielding hand before he could take in any air at all. His hand grasped futilely at the one preventing him from breathing, points of light in his vision, but Hawke wouldn't budge. It was only when he swallowed that the hand retreated and he was allowed to gasp for breath, his lungs on fire, his arse still being plunged into over and over and over and over again.

He'd taken a full dose.

Of the finest dwarven-mined mage-grade lyrium coin could buy. He'd never had anything so potent.

"There you go, _Commander_. You got my brother addicted to the stuff and thought you were better than him? You're nothing. And you won't escape the asylum. Maybe one day I'll pay you a visit when you can't even remember your own name."

He didn't want to listen. He didn't want to _feel_. He just had to endure this, and soon it would be over. Slowly his breathing evened out. It was as if he'd left his own body, as if it were happening to someone else. He concentrated on the little things to avoid the weight in his heart and the pain in his backside. 

On the way Hawke's breastplate hurt when it tore another bit of his skin. 

On the way the other man's armoured boots caught the fine hairs on the back of his legs and pulled.

On the way his own soft cock bounced with each of Hawke's thrusts. 

On the ridges in the wood of his desk.

On the bricks in his wall. 

On the books lining the bookshelf in front of him. 

On chess moves. 

On war table operations.

He was completely focused on anything that wasn't Hawke taking him. He would survive this. Had survived worse.

And then his door opened and Gabriel was talking even before getting in, balancing two mugs of mead and a stack of parchments, using his back to fully open the door and so not really taking in the scene before him until he was completely inside the tower. 

"Cullen, can you help me go over some of these? I brought mead to bribe you with to help my- _oh_."

He'd never seen Gabriel look like that. For the first few moments he stood, frozen and slack-jawed, while Hawke continued unrelentlessly pounding Cullen. Then something inside him shifted and he was the most courteous, polite, _distant_ impersonation of the mighty noble-born Inquisitor Cullen had ever seen. 

"I am terribly sorry for the intrusion, Commander. Hawke. I would suggest you lock the door next time. Carry on."

And he turned and left, not seeing the way Cullen's stoic façade cracked in the wake of Gabriel's retreating back. 

_Commander_ , he'd called him. He never called him Commander anymore unless he was teasing him over chess, but this had been no friendly teasing. He didn't know why, but seeing him being used by Hawke had done something to Gabriel. And Cullen had lost his friend.

A tear trickled down his face. 

His body shook with the force of Hawke's thrusts as the Champion sped up, nearing completion. He could feel the pain but couldn't focus on it, couldn't focus on anything except Gabriel. He'd gladly have endured a lifetime of this abuse by Hawke to extend his friendship with Gabriel by a single day. But he'd _lost_ it. And he deserved it.

With one final, powerful thrust Hawke reached his climax, buried to the hilt and still pushing forward and into Cullen's abused hole. Then it was over and Hawke had finally left, tucking himself back in his breeches and leaving without a backwards glance. 

Cullen stood there, nauseous, white knuckles still gripping the edge of his desk, for what felt like a very long time. 

He knew he was hurt, but the lyrium inside him was making pain a secondary issue. For the first time in so long he could see so much, with perfect clarity... Troop movements he might have done differently, decisions that could have been better informed, even training schedules that needed adjusting... 

He was so much more while on lyrium. 

And so much less. 

With the beautiful, accursed blue liquid coursing through his veins, the look on Gabriel's face when the other man had walked in could be recalled with complete accuracy, yet it didn't seem to matter nearly as much as it ought to. He knew it would matter again eventually, when the lyrium left his system.

_If_ he stopped taking it. 

With everything that he could now see, could he really justify not taking it? Giving so much less to the Inquisition than his full capabilities? To the Inquisitor? 

Realising he was wasting time he grabbed some parchment and a quill and started scribbling all the thoughts granted by his lyrium-augmented perception, so he could present them to Gabriel come morning. It was only hours later, when he could no longer grasp them clearly enough to write that he tore himself from his desk, his back protesting furiously, his skin as cold as ice. He was still naked and hadn't bothered to sit. 

Painfully he made his way up the ladder, Hawke's seed still inside him making him feel dirty and used, the tears on his back from the Champion's armour stinging, his arse burning from tearing and lyrium. The mage-grade potent dose was fast-acting but also quick to lose its potency; only a few hours and it was already leaving him, clarity of thought blurring and feelings returning in full force.

He had nothing else to offer Gabriel now, no novelty value, no more amusing virgin Templar toy. He'd given it to _Hawke_. But his mind... His mind on lyrium, that still _meant_ something. Still mattered, even if he, himself, no longer did.

Could he not give Gabriel his mind - give it completely, knowing that he would lose it in the end - as that littlest of gifts?

Perhaps the Maker would be kind. Perhaps Cullen could take the lyrium, give his all to the Inquisition and then, by the grace of the Maker, die before the brunt of the side-effects made an appearance. He could hope for that.

His body was worthless now, and his friendship... His friendship, he was certain, was no longer appreciated. Not after the way Gabriel had looked. 

So, yes.  
Yes.  
Yes, if Gabriel asked it of him, if Gabriel wanted him to, he'd take the lyrium. He'd be the best Commander he could be.

But... He didn't _want to_. He didn't want to to lose his mind, his fond memories of Gabriel, everything he was, however worthless that might be. He knew that made him selfish, one more sin to his name, but he didn't want to. So, if Gabriel didn't ask it of him, if Gabriel had all the facts and still didn't press, he wouldn't take it. Never again. It might be harder this time than it had been the first time, but he wouldn't take it unless it was what Gabriel clearly wanted.

He'd thought to clean himself and attempt to sleep but, with his decision made, the weight of the guilt was overwhelming. The only thing centring him was the stinging of the cuts on his back, newly opened skin over wounds long closed.

There was something Meredith had taught him - something he hadn't needed to use ever since her death, ever since he'd stopped being tacitly complicit in the abuses going on in the Circle - and it... It might help with the guilt. It always had in the past.

He didn't need to look for it, as he knew exactly where it was - in the false bottom of his trunk, hidden away by a plank so that no one would accidentally find it. His hands were certain as they opened the trunk, as they reached for the cat-o'-nine-tails. The physical pain would help take his mind off his worthlessness. 

Meredith had taught him to use it sparingly, to punish himself just enough that he might bear his sins, but never enough that he might be less than effective against a blood mage or an abomination attack. She needed her Knight-Captain in top physical form at all times. 

Here in Skyhold he was more tactical than out in the field, and Cassandra was as well equipped as he - better, he might say - to deal with any potential abomination.

Tonight he had no such restraint.

He sat down with the cat in hand, its strips deceptively smooth at first glance, grabbed the handle just so and began whispering in time with his strokes, mentally counting each one.

"Blessed are they who stand before"  
_One._

"The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."  
_Two._

"Blessed are the peacekeepers,"  
_Three._

"The champions of the just."  
_Four_

"Blessed are the righteous,"  
_Five._

"The lights in the shadow."  
_Six._

"In their blood the Maker's will is written."  
_Seven._

He didn't stop until he could no longer lift his arm, until he had long stopped being able to pray, until even the mental count eluded him; until dawn was fast approaching, judging by the light he could see through the hole in his roof. Yet, for him, it seemed dawn never came.

Warm blood ran down his back in rivulets as warm tears made a matching pair across his cheeks, and it still wasn't enough. Nothing was enough to numb his sense of worthlessness, but oblivion helped while it lasted. That was his last thought before slipping from the small wooden bench he'd sat on and falling to the floor, unconscious at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. This was the hardest scene I ever had to write. It was hard to convey that it *was* rape while being inside Cullen's head, and I hope I succeeded, because that's very much what it was. If you could find it in you to review and let me know your thoughts I'd really appreciate it. I


	4. Four

His back was on fire, white-hot fire, pure agony. He was aware of it even before he fully woke up. 

Then the rest of the sensations came, the ache in the muscles of his arm, the coppery smell, the stickiness of the mix of Hawke's seed with his own blood where it still clung to his skin, the pain of the bruise blossoming on his stomach where he'd been punched, and everything came flooding back to him.

He'd never been so vicious with the cat, not even remotely, but he had to function regardless. Already his overindulgence was hurting the Inquisition, judging by the position of the sun in the sky. He'd been unconscious until nearly midday. 

Acting as Meredith had taught him he took a second item from the bottom of his trunk - a bag of rock salt - and grabbed a handful, mixing it with water from the jar he kept near his basin. It helped stave off the infection without the need to see a healer, but pouring it down his abused back was fresh agony.

Then he cleaned the rest of his body, wiped away the remaining traces of Hawke's use, and - very slowly - got dressed and put his armour on. Maybe if he'd had it on the previous night things wouldn't have escalated the way they had.

Climbing down the ladder was a lengthy process, especially since he didn't trust his right arm. Perhaps he should see a healer about the muscles in his arm - and _only_ the muscles in his arm - before beginning work in earnest; he was useless in training if he couldn't hold a sword.

He was on his way out the door to see the healer when he saw the parchment with all his thoughts from the night before. At least in this he'd be valuable to Gabriel. To his Lord Inquisitor, if Gabriel was forever beyond his reach.

But he couldn't make sense of it. He could _read_ it despite the cramped handwriting, but his brain just wasn't operating at the same level as it was when he was on lyrium. 

One more failure. Maker, how could he justify not taking it? He had to get to Gabriel. Had to tell him how he'd been misled, how Cullen wasn't as effective as he could be. 

His foot hit the side of the desk and his inkpot rolled towards the ground. The sudden movement he unconsciously made to grab it caused a stab of pain up his right arm towards his shoulder and his nerveless fingers couldn't close over the inkpot, that continued to fall until it shattered on the stone floor. He really needed to see the healer first.

* * *

The morning had been a productive one, even if he had been avoiding the general vicinity of Cullen's tower. He would have to face his Commander sooner or later but, for now, later was preferable by far. 

Of course, just as he was mentally congratulating himself on a successful avoidance plan, _Hawke_ materialised right in front of him outside the War Room. Lovely.

"Inquisitor," the other man greeted congenially, "just the man I was looking for!"

"Champion," he replied tersely. He remembered having a tooth pulled as a child. It hadn't been this painful.

"I wanted to thank you for your lovely hospitality. It's been a pleasure, and seeing Varric again has been rather refreshing. You have the beginnings of an impressive fortress here. I can't wait to lay my eyes on it once you've completed all your renovations. Walk with me?"

Feeling like the outsider in his own castle, Gabriel did. He'd rather have been anywhere but here. He'd rather have been _Varric_ , facing Cassandra's wrath, and that was saying quite a lot. 

They walked for nearly an hour, side by side, Hawke doing most of the talking, criticising this choice, praising that one, always a carrot for when the stick began to grate on Gabriel's nerves. Where he'd found Hawke cordial enough, if a bit overwhelming, all week, he now couldn't wait to get away. The man came across as the darker side of Vivienne, only Vivienne's charm was real. It was nearly lunch time. Didn't the mage have better things to do than talk his ear off about everything and nothing? 

They came to a stop near The Herald's Rest, where an Inquisition agent was waiting with all of Hawke's belongings neatly packed. An _Inquisition_ agent. He strutted around as if he owned the place.

"My dear Inquisitor, I'm afraid I have to leave for now. I had planned on sticking around for a bit, but it turns out I have other matters that need my attention. Have Varric send me a raven as soon as you're ready to depart for Crestwood, and I'll meet you there. I'll try to come visit the Inquisition before Bloomingtide if I can."

Gabriel nodded in assent. Hawke was leaving for now. That would spare him, Gabriel, some embarrassment. 

"By the way, have you seen Cullen? I tried to find him in his tower but unlike yesterday, his door was locked."

And there it was. The intense stab of jealousy even as heat suffused his cheeks. He swallowed. 

"His door is only ever locked when he isn't there. Have you tried the battlements? He sometimes goes there for air."

"I didn't, but time is coin, as they say. Give him my goodbyes for me when you see him? Ah, Varric!" The dwarf had walked up to them and clapped the Champion on the back in a friendly gesture. "Here to see me off? Well, off we go then." He took off his right gauntlet and extended a hand, which Gabriel dutifully shook before letting go as soon as he'd held it enough to be just on the right side of polite. And then he was finally off.

Watching Hawke's retreating back, Gabriel struggled to understand. Hawke had wasted an hour talking to him about nothing in particular but couldn't be arsed to go find his lover to say goodbye to?

He felt sick. Cullen deserved _better_. Once again it was the jealousy talking. The former Templar had chosen Hawke and so Gabriel had to find fault with everything Hawke did. But he felt unreasonably angry that the Champion hadn't made it a point to say goodbye to his lover before departing. Had it been him... If Cullen had chosen him instead he'd never leave Skyhold without saying goodbye, no matter how short a journey. 

Disgusted with himself he ignored the lunch bell and made straight for the training grounds. He could go to the cook later for food; right now he needed to set fire to something, and the training dummies would serve just fine.

* * *

Well over an hour later, with his arm functioning normally and only his back - both his upper back and his backside - hurting, he was on his way to the training grounds, to ask Cassandra to help with the troops that afternoon, when he spotted Gabriel outside The Herald's Rest - talking to Hawke.

He froze, his heart suddenly about to explode, holding his breath. The two men hadn't seen him yet, seemed to be making polite conversation, and Gabriel looked tremendously uncomfortable. Was Hawke telling him the truth? That Cullen had begged for lyrium?

He took a step back, then another, then one more, never taking his eyes off the pair of men. Hawke had too much gear to be going to the guest quarters, and Gabriel was in his finery rather than geared to go out. Then Varric approached, clapped Hawke on the back and the Champion shook the Inquisitor's hand before they parted, Varric walking with Hawke in the direction of the courtyard. 

Still finding it hard to breathe he turned left and up the stairs, then ran across the battlements, trying to follow them without being seen. The Maker must have heard his prayers. From his vantage point he saw Varric saying his goodbyes at the gates and them closing behind Hawke. The Champion was gone from Skyhold.

He stood rooted to the spot, trying to control his breathing, well past the lunch bell.

As the wave of adrenaline ebbed he became aware of his splitting headache, complete with rising nausea. A shot of lyrium would help. How he missed it, missed its certainty, its comforting song, the order it brought to his life. He wished he could have just a taste. It would help with the fiery pain in his back as well - although he knew he had never before flogged himself even remotely so aggressively, lyrium had always allowed him to better ignore the pain. The craving hadn't been this strong since those first days of abstinence in Kirkwall.

In no fit state to confront Gabriel he made for the kitchen. He had skipped lunch and between his headache and the nausea wasn't hungry, but to have something else to focus on would help calm his frayed nerves, and he knew he had lost some blood that would need to be replenished. Food would help. 

Clearly the Maker had answered enough of his prayers for the day, because the first person he saw upon entering the kitchen was Gabriel, pestering the cook.

Their eyes met, and Gabriel's were cold while Cullen shattered anew. 

"Commander," a curt nod, "Hawke left. He wanted to say his goodbyes, but you were nowhere to be found. He'll be back, possibly before Bloomingtide."

Hawke would be back. In less than two months. He felt as though the ground had opened up before him and he couldn't breathe again. While he was busy not showing his panic Gabriel had already moved past him and was out the door, forcing him to rush after him, his back in agony because of his speed, warring with his head for attention, the tears in his arse stinging almost enough to make his eyes water.

"Gabriel. Gabriel, wait!" 

"I am rather busy, Commander," the other man replied without breaking stride, "can it wait?"

"I- Gabriel... Inquisitor." He was still walking away from him. "It's Inquisition business."

Gabriel stopped abruptly and turned to face him, clearly annoyed. He forged ahead. 

"There's something we need to discuss and it... It's important."

"Can you bring it up with either Leliana or Josephine? Like I said, I'm rather busy."

It hurt so deep to see Gabriel so cold... The other man always had time for everyone, he always _made_ time. It didn't matter how small the complaint, how menial the task, if someone needed him, he was personally available. Yet now, after witnessing Hawke making use of Cullen, the Inquisitor no longer had time for him. Gabriel obviously _despised_ him. He only wished he knew why. 

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. If it hadn't been so serious a subject he'd have dropped it and never bothered Gabriel again.

"If... If I have somehow offended, I apologise. And if there is anything I can do to make amends, anything at all, you only have to say so. But I truly need to speak with you. _Please_."

For a moment Gabriel looked startled at his pleading tone. Then he let out a long exhale, dragging his hand over his face and through his hair, making dark locks stick out at odd angles. His eyes and voice regained their familiar warmth and he bridged the distance between himself and Cullen, placing his hand on the Commander's arm. 

"No, don't say that. I'm the one who should be apologising, not you, Cullen. You've done nothing wrong and I'm... I'm taking something out on you that is no fault of yours. Forgive me? Please?"

There was nothing in all of Thedas - no craving, no pain, no headache - that could dampen his elation. He hadn't lost Gabriel's friendship. It was the one thing in his life that truly meant something, and he hadn't lost it. A smile, small but genuine, blossomed on his lips. He wished he could feel the warmth of the other man's fingers through his armour, where they rested on his arm, but it was enough to know they rested there.

"Of course. I am relieved to know I haven't offended you."

"I'm really sorry for the way I acted, Cullen. It was beneath me and you didn't deserve it. What was it you needed? Do you want me to call a War Room meeting?"

"I was hoping we could talk somewhere more private?"

"Er... Sure. Your office?"

_Hawke behind him, hurting him, ploughing away as if he were nothing. Lyrium in his arse, down his throat, and Hawke kept going, going, going-_

"Cullen? Are you alright? You're as white as a sheet."

"It's nothing," he said, but Gabriel didn't look convinced, "a headache, and part of what I wanted to talk to you about, but I'd rather we go somewhere else? By the chessboard, perhaps? I'm not in the mood for a game, but sitting there would be nice."

"Lead the way."

Their little chess corner was peacefully quiet when they arrived. It was a balm to be here, with a Gabriel who was once again his friend, willing to listen to him. Whatever Gabriel wanted him to do about the lyrium he'd do, no questions asked. Gabriel deserved only the best of him, and that wasn't all that much.

He'd been wracking his mind for an opening, a way to begin, the entire time, but his back - that, in addition to hurting, was beginning to itch - and his head kept distracting him, and he felt dizzy from the pain. Sitting down heavily - then regretting sitting down at all, as the pain from Hawke's use made itself more prominent - while Gabriel followed suit with much more grace, he began. 

"Gabriel, I... As leader of the Inquisition, there's something I must tell you."

Gabriel's encouraging smile was all he needed to continue.

"I... How much do you know about Templars and lyrium?"

"I known you take it from the moment you take your vows. That it augments your abilities. And that you take a weird version of it, one that lasts a lot longer but is nowhere near as powerful. 

"Back in Ostwick I took Templar-lyrium once - there was a mix-up with labeling - and it was _terrible_. We were still apprentices and part of our duties included incinerating garbage. I needed to sustain the fire spell or it just wasn't effective, but I'd spent half the night using my mana for... other activities," Gabriel's innuendo was not lost on him, "and I needed a boost. 

"Didn't give me the boost I needed to maintain raging fire level, but then it didn't fizzle out either as it would have if I'd run out of mana. The other apprentices mocked me for weeks as the mage who would have given garbage a nice cosy home to come in from the cold." Gabriel laughed.

"I swear I saw a cockroach coming _closer_ to the bloody fire. On _purpose_. But the stuff takes forever to get out of your system. It was a good twelve hours and it was still active. By then my mana had more than replenished itself and it was... The best way to describe it is when you've eaten a whole meal, you're full, and then you spend the rest of the day eating more and more and more. It's nauseating. Ugh."

Despite the gravity of what he was about to disclose Cullen couldn't help but smile at the thought of a young Gabriel trying to burn garbage and warming it up instead. 

Although... His thoughts turned somber. Gabriel was still warming garbage up and giving it a home after all this time, if the way he made Cullen feel was any indication. He shook his head - promptly regretting that course of action when nausea reared its ugly head - and continued. 

"Lyrium grants Templars our abilities, yes, but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer: some go mad; others die. We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here, but I..." The feeling of wrongness, of lying to Gabriel by not mentioning the lyrium he'd had only the previous night, nearly made him choke on the words. "I no longer take it." 

That made Gabriel's smile falter, and Cullen's heart clenched at the sight. The other man would want him to go back on his leash. Gabriel's voice was carefully neutral. "You stopped?"

"When I joined the Inquisition. It's been months now." Months since he'd stopped, but less than a day since he'd had it. Since he'd begged. Maker, he was a coward. 

"Cullen, why? You just said this can kill you..."

"It hasn't yet. And taking it is just as likely to kill me or drive me mad in the long run. Templars who live to reach old age, they're... Their mind isn't all there.

"At one point I thought it was the withdrawal, but I've come to believe that prolonged effects of lyrium use are not dissimilar to withdrawal effects. It ends up being toxic to all but mages and dwarves, only it takes longer with Templars than with regular people.

"After what happened in Kirkwall... I couldn't. I didn't want to be bound to the Order - or that life - any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it. 

"But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I have asked Cassandra to... watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty."

"Relieved from- you're our Commander. This army is what you make of it. If you think you'd be relieved of command just like that..." Gabriel trailed off what seemed to be the beginning of a rant. His tone was displeased, to say the least, but it warmed up as he asked, "Are you in pain?"

"I can endure it. There are worse days than others. Headaches and nausea are more common than other effects, but other types of pain can manifest as well. Some days it can be incapacitating. You might have need of me on a day where I cannot deliver. 

"But it's not even that. I haven't been giving you - the Inquisition - my all. It's not just my Templar abilities that it enhances. Lyrium makes me think better, see more clearly. There are entire scenarios I cannot envision without it. I am... _less_ without it. Less effective, more prone to error," he exhaled, "I've been doing you a disservice by keeping this from you. You should have a say in this. 

"I have... I need to admit that I have been selfish in giving you - the Inquisition - rather less than what I could. If..." Getting these words out was like a knife in his gut, "If you feel I should go back to it, I will. I can become better."

"Sod the Inquisition," Gabriel said abruptly and rather viciously. Then, gently this time, "This is... It's incredibly brave, what you're doing. And my knee-jerk reaction would be to ask you to go back to the stuff the moment you said it could kill you or drive you mad, but if it was going to do that even with you taking it, then maybe by going off it so soon you're actually preventing that. 

"But if you think I'd reward your loyalty by removing you from command after everything you've given you've got another thing coming. The Chantry may have used you like a tool, but I have no inclination to do the same."

Cullen was startled and moved by the fire in Gabriel's green eyes. _'Sod the Inquisition.'_ Leave it to Gabriel to make him love him all the more by cursing like a dwarf. 

"Thank you, Gabriel, I... _Thank you_. But the Inquisition's army must always take priority. Should something happen... I will defer to Cassandra's judgment."

"And she will defer to mine. And if you all wanted something different you shouldn't have put me in charge. By the way, if the tactics you've been developing these months are what you'd call 'less,' well, let's just say I might start pitying Corypheus if you were to do more. Give the ancient Darkspawn a fighting chance, will you? Not very sporting otherwise."

Gabriel's nonchalance might have brought a smile to Cullen's lips if it hadn't been for-

"... Haven. My tactics weren't nearly enough there. My tactics costed lives." His tone was subdued. "Would have cost _you_ yours too if you weren't so resilient."

The Inquisitor gave a mock gasp. "You mean to tell me that, had you been taking lyrium, you'd have deduced that a giant whole in the sky was the work of an ancient Tevinter magister turned Darkspawn, and that he'd been amassing an army? My, those _are_ some supernatural abilities that the stuff grants you!"

"Gabriel-"

"No. Cullen. No. No one could have predicted Haven. You did the best with what we had, and you saved so many... You need to let go of that guilt. No one could have done better."

"Says the man who nearly died because I wasn't prepared to defend the city."

"Says the man who's only alive because you went out looking for him in the snow when any sane person would have given up the search by then."

The breath caught in his throat. 

There had never been another moment when he had so completely longed to kiss Gabriel. It was... It might have been a good thing for his resolve that Hawke had rendered his novelty value null and void the night before, or he might have forgotten that Gabriel deserved much better and kissed him regardless. Just one kiss would have been the memory of a lifetime.

But he'd never been worthy of that, and if he were to tell Gabriel why - if he were to tell him about Kinloch Hold and the Gallows - he'd lose his friendship for good. He couldn't do that. It was a conscious decision, to keep deceiving Gabriel into being his friend, and it only underscored Cullen's own unworthiness. He felt a twinge in his gut for once unrelated to the pain pulsing where Hawke had punched him.

"You are far too forgiving. With everyone. It might prove your undoing one day."

"And you are far too _un_ forgiving with yourself. I wish I could get you to stop that. Now, about the lyrium," diamond-hard glittering green eyes met his own, "you are not, under any circumstance to go back to the stuff if you're only doing it for the good of the Inquisition. If it's for yourself, if the withdrawal is killing you then, by all means, take it. But not if you're doing it to give more. You give more than enough already. That's an order. Understood?"

Heart overflowing with the kindness he was being offered Cullen agreed. 

"Understood. Thank you."

"Good. And if there's anything I can do to help you, you can always count on me. No matter the hour. I mean that. How about healing? Would that help with the side effects?"

"I tried Spirit Healing, but it doesn't seem to do much. Perhaps because the effects are caused by lyrium, I don't know. But, once more, thank you."

"And food? You look terrible. I take it today is one of those bad days? Have you eaten?"

"Not yet, no," he admitted. 

"Then stay here, I'll go get us some food."

"Thank you, but I need to be going. I didn't do the morning exercises with the troops and it's past the lunch bell already-"

"I'll get Cassandra to do it. You look as if a feather could knock you over. No arguing. Cass can take over for the afternoon and I'm getting us food."

And he did, coming back sometime later with bread and broth that Cullen was sure had been made especially to help with his nausea. Staying with him, eating with him, helping him up from the chair when getting up on his own proved to be too much, walking with him to the tower, his previous pressing business forgotten.

He didn't deserve even an iota of this kindness, this care, this loyalty. But he had it, and he couldn't part with it. Not while Gabriel was willing to give it. So he'd keep it while he could, and thank the Maker every day for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, headcanons regarding lyrium for this specific fic:
> 
> #1 - For those familiar with limitless, it's a bit like NZT for non-mages. 
> 
> #2 - There have to be differences between Templar grade lyrium and mage grade lyrium. Templars have no mana, so they need lyrium that fades very slowly; mages, on the other hand, naturally replenish their mana over time, so their lyrium needs to be fast acting and powerful, but can't linger for very long or it'll be an overflow of mana. 
> 
> As always, reviews are the life blood of any author.


	5. Five

"Zombies, Dorian. Maker-forsaken zombies. Water-swollen Maker-forsaken zombies. At the bottom of a lake. I should have brought you along."

Dorian laughed, his perfectly coiffed mustache rising and falling in sync. 

"Me? Why in Thedas for? The dead were already raised, you had no need of my - admittedly many and varied - talents. I'm sure Vivienne found them far more fascinating than I ever could."

"You are a horrible person. I ought to shave half your mustache while you sleep."

Dorian frowned, although his eyes didn't lose their mirth. 

"Come now, there is never a need to threaten a man's facial hair. Which you would know, if you had any."

Gabriel eyed him suspiciously, adjusting his position in the library chair. 

"That's it? You're going to let that slide with only a comment on how I like to shave? Alright, who are you and what have you done with Dorian?"

Another peel of laughter. More than amused, the Tevinter mage sounded genuinely happy.

"You'd fight the impostor to get me back? Good man!"

"Riiiight. Now quit stalling and spill. What happened in these weeks I was away that has you floating like that?"

Dorian's smile never wavered, but it turned calmer, gentler. 

"As insane as it seemed when I first got here, you were right about the south. I don't know what I expected to find, but it certainly wasn't... Well."

Blushing. Dorian Pavus, Tevinter Altus extraordinaire, tremendously gifted necromancer, sweet talker and all-around perfect specimen of human man was _blushing_. So fiercely even his ears were red. This had to be good. 

"Well? Well what? Spill!"

"It wasn't a man so insistent on starting a... A _relationship_." He said the word as if it were a shameful secret, but happiness was still oozing from his every pore. His voice dropped to a whisper. "With me, in case that wasn't obvious."

Gabriel broke into a grin, his previous whining about zombies all but forgotten. Dorian was one of his best friends, and he certainly deserved this. Plus, with the way his own love life was disastrously non-existent, he might as well live vicariously through his friends'. He straightened in his chair only to lean forward, cheek on his palm.

"I'm so happy for you, Dorian! I want to hear all about it. Be as detailed as you'd like."

He wiggled his eyebrows and Dorian laughed again, still blushing.

"I don't know that I'm allowed to give details for now, but I'll be sure to ask later. You'll go down in history as Gabriel Trevelyan, the Perverted Inquisitor, never fear."

"Wha- you can't leave me hanging like that! That violates one of the Unspoken Friendship Principles of the South, I'll have you know." 

"Well, what can I say? I'm a rebel no matter where I am."

"Dorian!" His tone was as petulant as a child's even as he was still grinning. "You have to give me _something_! At least tell me how it started. Did he go after you, or you him? Who kissed who first?"

"Ah, so it's Gabriel Trevelyan, the Closet Romantic, then? Here to hear all about my dashing blond knight in shining lion armour?"

Gabriel's grin suddenly felt artificial and empty, fixed in place by an illusion so hard to maintain that it made his cheeks hurt. _Cullen_? Dorian and Cullen were together? What had happened to Hawke? Hawke, who Gabriel had just left in Crestwood a few days ago, Hawke who had casually inquired about the Commander's well being? And was it worse for Gabriel, or better, that Cullen was with Dorian instead? 

It was both. A little bit of both. 

It was better in a way - Dorian was someone worthy of Cullen, someone who would treat him right, be by his side. Someone who would help him through the lyrium withdrawal, not leave Skyhold without so much as a by your leave after wasting more than an hour idly chatting to someone else, and on a morning when Cullen was so clearly vulnerable, no less. Someone who wouldn't say he'd be back only to delay it even knowing what his lover was going through. Someone who would give Cullen everything he had to give, and that was quite a lot. 

It was also far, far worse. If Cullen was with Dorian, then Gabriel had already asked to hear details and there was no gracious way of backtracking out of that pit of hurt. If he was with Dorian then Gabriel couldn't even hope - no, not hope, just hopelessly fantasise - to win Cullen's affections, to one day have him for his own without a dose of guilt. Dorian was his _friend_ , and a good one at that. He didn't deserve to have Gabriel pining for his partner.

"... Gabriel? Are you simply so astounded by my magnificence that you can't bring yourself to form words, or do I have something on my mustache? Maker forbid, it isn't askance, is it?" 

Gabriel got up nervously, heart thudding in his ears.

"No, I- it's fine. I was just surprised. I'm glad for you both. I'm sorry, I just remembered something I have to do." He couldn't look Dorian in the eye. "Please know I wish you and Cullen all the happiness in the world."

He flinched at the incredulous laugh coming from the Altus, who rose from his own chair as well.

" _Cullen_? Maker's breath, man, you must be mad! I like my internal organs to remain on the inside, preferably uncooked by fireballs, thank you very much. I wouldn't try to take your Cullen out from under you. And, _oh_ , the possibilities of what I just said are simply delicious."

Gabriel stared, incredulous.

" _My_ Cullen? He's not my Cullen."

"Right. And I'm not an incredibly talented Altus who just so happens to be fabulously handsome."

Gabriel sat back down, confused.

"But you just said 'dashing blond knight'-" 

"Michel. I meant Michel."

"Mich- de Chevin? _That_ dashing blond knight in shining lion armour?"

Gabriel's breathing was easier now that the entirety of Thedas wasn't compressing his chest. He hadn't had much opportunity to talk to de Chevin since recruiting him but, from what little they had spoken, he gathered there was a tragic story there and a strong moral code. Even not knowing him all that well he had the sense the Chevalier would be a worthy partner for Dorian.

Ugh, Andraste's dimpled buttcheeks, he really was a closet romantic, wasn't he? His smile was back to being genuine and didn't feel brittle anymore.

"Yes, _that_ one."

"... Oh. Congratulations, Dorian. And details, please."

"Ah. So you've remembered that you _don't_ have that something to do after all? But he's not _your_ Cullen. Where in the Unspoken Friendship Principles of the South does it say that one friend ought to share his love life while the other one hides his own?"

Dorian's tone was teasing, gently coaxing, not offended or insulted, but Gabriel had no love tale to regale him with. 

"I didn't say I didn't _want_ him to be. But he doesn't want me, so that's the end of it."

" _He_ doesn't want _you_? Are we talking about the same Cullen, here? Athletic, blond, curly haired Commander of the Inquisition, fairly tall, scar on his lip, lights up when you enter the room, _that_ Cullen?"

He let his head fall forward, face almost between his knees, elbows bracing on his legs, both hands pulling his hair back in a ficticious ponytail, and exhaled slowly. Dorian was his friend, it wouldn't do to attack him over his good intentions. 

"He doesn't 'light up' when I enter the room, Dorian," he replied, hurt bubbling up again, "and it's cruel of you to say so. I get that you think you're being kind, but you're being cruel. Not everyone gets their happy ending just because you fell in love and were requited."

A ringed hand fell on his shoulder, its pressure comforting. 

"My dear man, I would never tell you I had seen something there if I hadn't, especially not in this. The only reason why you don't notice the difference is because you never see our Commander when you're not with him. 

"When you're around him that long uncomfortable stick he has shoved up his arse seems to be just on the right side of flexible; he laughs more - he laughs with his _eyes_ , even. It's positively terrifying. 

"It's subtle to the untrained eye, but I know pining when I see it, and the two of you seem to be professionals. You can't honestly tell me you truly think there's no chance."

Gabriel lifted his head to look into Dorian's concerned eyes. 

"I don't _think_ anything, he flat out told me. That he'd like to have me as a friend, nothing more." Another exhale, more fiddling with his hair. "So we're friends."

"Maybe there's another explanation? Perhaps as a Templar he took a vow of chastity and doesn't want to break it? You southerners have strange ideas."

"He's _with_ someone. It's half of why I was so caught off guard when I thought you and he..." he trailed off. 

"With someome. A woman?" 

"A man. And I accidentally walked in on them, there is no vow of chastity, believe me."

It comforted and disturbed him in equal measure that Dorian's eyes, that he was sure would hold no small amount of glee at the thought of someone walking in on the Commander under different circumstances, held nothing but sympathy for him. Maker, he was so far gone it was pathetic, and he still had no clue how to go about getting over his feelings for Cullen.

"Gabriel, I don't know what to say to that. I do know what I see. Like I said earlier, he lights up when you are near. I wouldn't joke about that."

"Well, maybe he feels lighter when he knows the Anchor is in the room. Maybe he feels he can better protect everyone else with me around to close any rifts that open, so he isn't quite as stressed. But, whatever it is, it isn't... It- it isn't _love_. And, Void take me, Dorian, I love him. So. Bloody. Much.

"Sodding Maker, it's like one of those stupid clichés from the novels that used to be masquerading as books on magical theory back in the Circle. Sometimes when I see him I have to remind myself to breathe or I'll forget and run out of air. He's... He's everything. But he's not _my_ Cullen, and I'd really appreciate it if you didn't refer to him as such.

"Now, for the love of the Maker, Andraste his bride, the elven Creators and even the old Gods, can we _please_ move on to something happier? I believe I was asking for details on _your_ knight before I began bemoaning my lack of one. Tell me everything you can."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing Dorian, and he's a hard character to get the voice right, so I hope I haven't mangled him irreparably. Dorian's chat with Gabriel was supposed to be a tiny two-or-three-paragraph bit of chapter, but evidently they had much to say to each other. More interactions between Cullen and Gabriel in chapter Six, I promise. Feel free to review and yell at me over any unDorianness you might find.


	6. Six

_‘Inquisitor Trevelyan,_

_Once again I must apologise for not coming to visit as promised, but the work I’m doing in Kirkwall has begun to bear fruit. I believe that, between my presence here and your Inquisition, we can do much for the good of Thedas._

_Prince Vael is a staunch ally as well and tells me that Starkhaven is ready to commit troops to your Inquisition according to his ability and your need, providing you make it one of the Inquisition’s priorities to aid in the capture of Anders, the responsible party for the destruction of the Chantry, as well as Fenris, the elf who inexplicably helped him flee._

_Onto the main subject of this missive, I, along with Loghain, have been tracking magister Erimond and, while we have a fairly good idea of where he’s going, to set in motion the next part of his macabre plot, we urge you not to charge in just yet. Loghain and the Hero of Ferelden have been in contact regarding this, and they both agree that the ritual the magister is attempting will take him the better part of two months to prepare. Only then will he be in Adamant, and to charge the fortress before that would be to give up on capturing Erimond, who would undoubtedly flee, and to give up on his insight into the mind of Corypheus._

_Please take care of any pressing business you may have until then, as it would be foolish to miss this opportunity._

_As an aside, I keep meaning to visit and keep getting delayed. You stole one of my best people - Kirkwall just isn’t the same without Varric - and I’m rather overworked. The least you could do is an even trade. Would you be open to sending Cullen to work with me here in Kirkwall, to act as a liaison to the Inquisition and to help stabilise the city? I know he’s invaluable as your Commander, but you’re sufficiently well-established by now that you would have no trouble replacing him and, let me make that perfectly clear, Varric was invaluable as well and you took him anyway. Can I start making plans?_

_Also, please don’t let Cullen know until I tell you otherwise, I want this to come as a surprise. Plan on having him come back with me at Adamant, as that gives me just enough time to put everything in motion and it still gives you enough time to find a replacement. Coming back to Kirkwall will be just what he deserves._

_Thank you for your generosity and dedication,_

_Garrett Hawke’_

Gabriel resisted the urge to throw his glass of water against the wall of his chambers. He couldn’t keep breaking whatever it was that held what he was currently drinking whenever something related to Cullen and Hawke came up, no matter how much it hurt.

His first instinct was to deny Hawke’s request. Hawke’s not-request, to put it bluntly. As usual, the man wasted no time in taking charge and making Gabriel feel like an inept apprentice. First he entreated Gabriel not to attack Adamant before the investigation was complete, then he told him to take care of his loose ends beforehand. In one paragraph he was asking for Cullen, in the next he had already assumed he was getting him.

He could rot in the Void. Cullen was the heart and soul of this army, and Gabriel couldn’t be expected to just give him up on the Champion’s whim. Cullen would understand - he never questioned duty.

But was it really duty when every fibre of Gabriel’s being was rebelling at the thought of no longer having Cullen around Skyhold? Was it for the good of the Inquisition or out of selfishness that he wanted to keep the former Templar right where he was?

‘ _Coming back to Kirkwall will be just what he deserves._ ‘

Kirkwall had, as far as Gabriel knew, taken a terrible toll on Cullen. Maybe seeing the town heal, having a hand in that, and by his lover’s side no less, would finally take some of the unforgiving burden off the Commander’s shoulders. And Gabriel couldn’t deny him that.

Even if it meant the end of chess games and stories, of late night conversations and stolen baked goods from the kitchen, he had to let the man he loved go. The man who didn’t love _him_ , and to whom it would be unfair to shackle to the Inquisition out of jealousy. A true friend wouldn’t do that. He was losing Cullen for good. Best to make peace with that.

* * *

This was it, Cullen thought, pacing his office, this was when they caught Samson. This was when they put a definitive stop to the other man’s loathsome practice of using _people_ to produce more red lyrium.

This was where they corrected one of Cullen’s most egregious mistakes.

Had he shown Samson the kindness Cassandra had shown himself, would the other man still have gone down this dark path? Had there been no Cassandra and had Corypheus approached Cullen instead, would he have fallen so low? 

He liked to think that he wouldn’t have, but Samson had been a better man than he had. Was it all down to luck and circumstance?

Trying to soothe his nerves he spun his lucky coin along his fingers. Luck had led him here. Away from Ferelden, away from Kirkwall, close to Gabriel.

Gabriel. Of course his thoughts always ended up there, no matter how twisty a path they took. 

Gabriel, who had just come by to ask if Cullen would mind sharing the smaller tent with him, because the Bull took up more space and it made more sense to have him share the larger one with Solas and Cole, who took up almost none at all, than it did to cart a third tent only because Cullen was tagging along. He felt elated and ashamed in equal parts.

Of course he’d be elated - to be so close to the man he loved, for weeks, to listen to him sleeping, to know he was _there_ \- what could be better?

But also deeply, deeply ashamed. They were chasing Samson, not playing house. He had no right to look forward to sleeping in the same tent as Gabriel as if it were anything other than what it was, no right to abuse the other man’s trust like that. No right to look forward to the idea of closing his eyes and _pretending_.

He should have thought about how worthy a man he wanted to be before having allowed Meredith to rule the Gallows unchecked. Then he could have been with Gabriel, instead of pretending; instead of living in dread of the day the other man discovered his past.

Whenever he dwelled on it he couldn’t shake the image of a vacant-eyed Gabriel, a sunburst etched on his forehead. He would have allowed this wonderful man’s very essence to be snuffed out like a candle without a second thought a few years back. 

They’d be leaving in half an hour, he realised, putting away his coin and climbing the ladder to reach for the cat. He needed something on his skin, a reminder to take with him, something to ground him lest he forgot himself while sharing Gabriel’s tent. Something to last, since he couldn’t indulge in this need during the journey. Half an hour. There was still time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I must apologise for the lack of interaction between Gabriel and Cullen. This chapter demanded I end it here, and there was little I could do but obey.


	7. Seven

Gabriel had had an uneasy feeling the entire journey. It wasn’t that he was an expert on the subject by any means, but he felt like he was being watched. Followed. Something uncomfortable prickling the back of his head. The feeling hadn’t started straight away after leaving Skyhold but, after making itself known, it wouldn’t go away.

He wished the Bull had come as planned - surely the spy would have been able to either confirm or deny his gut feeling - but Blackwall had taken his place as, moments before departure, he had received a message about a potential alliance with the qunari. The Bull had stayed behind in Skyhold to reply, coordinate with his Chargers and make preparations for something involving Venatori and a qunari dreadnought. Sounded like fun.

Was Gabriel ever going to be allowed to return from a mission and just relax for a full week, he wondered, instead of having to jump straight into the next one? Maker’s dirty underwear, it could be exhausting!

Meanwhile, there was something wrong with Cullen. Gabriel hadn’t noticed it at first, had been too preoccupied with thoughts of Hawke’s letter and the unnerving sensation of being followed, but every day it seemed the Commander’s movements were just a little more uncoordinated, just a tad more sluggish.

Of course Cullen was an incredible fighter; someone who didn’t know him wouldn’t notice anything amiss, but to Gabriel, who had spent far more time than what would be considered healthy watching the other man spar, it was readily apparent. Was it the withdrawal? He just couldn’t shake the thought that something else was off.

He put out the fire slowly, purposely wasting time before heading for their shared tent. He’d noticed Cullen clearly preferred to already be out of his armour and into his nightclothes, safely inside his bedroll by the time Gabriel made it to the tent, so he made a point of staying by the fire long enough for that to happen before going to sleep.

He hoped it was only Cullen being modest, and not that the former Templar was uncomfortable specifically around him.

It figured he would play up this journey in his mind until his stomach hurt with anticipation - his last chance to properly enjoy Cullen’s presence, to quietly say his own sort of goodbye to him before he left with Hawke, to fantasise that the other man wouldn’t want to leave - only to be utterly unable to enjoy a single minute of it. 

The reality was that, between the idea of being followed and the feeling of wrongness emanating from Cullen, he was permanently tense, waiting for the unknown axe to fall. 

And that had been before arriving to the Shrine and finding Samson was already gone, his Tranquil friend left behihd to commit suicide. All so terribly tragic, such a waste of life…

He shook his head as Cole sat across from him in front of the extinguished fire. Cole was a rogue and a spirit. Could he tell they were being followed? 

“Hi Cole. Can you sense someone near, other than the five of us?” 

“He loved and he wanted and he lost and he gained. Fled towards fleeing, loneliness even together, warped and warping, nowhere to run. Broke the chains to make for the chains, help the helpless and heal, heal, heal. But he never meant for the fire to consume them, and now no one will believe him except for home.”

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Home was a weapon and hated, and it hurt, and it hit, but then home was healed and it loved as well, once it saw what needed to be seen. Flying is betraying, but didn’t he betray himself first by falling? Home is healing and healing is home even when homeless.” 

Gabriel just stared. 

“I’m really trying, Cole, but I can’t make heads or tails of what you’re sayi-”

And of course Cole had already popped out of existence. Why was nothing ever easy? 

It should take them less than three days to reach Skyhold. He only hoped nothing of consequence happened before then.

* * *

Cullen was already in his bedroll when Gabriel walked in. He was thankful the other man had seemed to immediately understand that he didn’t want to undress in front of him, and it had never been an issue during the journey. Of course, Gabriel had no idea it was his back that Cullen didn’t want him to see, which was the entire point.

Initially there was nothing to see unless he was shirtless, but lately it had begun to ooze, and Cullen didn’t want to risk Gabriel noticing the patches of tunic that were plastered to his back, despite the poor light. 

He was cold, so cold. These last few days it seemed he was perpetually cold even while his back still burned. He had foregone the salt before leaving Skyhold, he had been reckless and there had been no time, and he was almost certain he had developed an infection.

He suspected the cold meant he was suffering from a low grade fever as well, and he’d been depleting his personal supply of healing potions to stave it off. He only had two left, and he’d been taking more than that a day, but he had to make do. They were a little over two days from Skyhold, it would work. He would need to see a healer once they returned, and he didn’t have a clue how he would begin to explain his back, but it would work before it became dangerous.

He wrapped himself even more tightly in his bedroll, trying to hide the shivers that were creeping up on him as he offered Gabriel a smile.

“Gabriel.”

“We need a translator for Cole,” Gabriel complained, undoing the buckles in his armour, “do you happen to know anyone that speaks Confusing Fade Spirit? I’m all out of ideas.”

Cullen’s gut twisted uncomfortably. Had Cole said something to give him away?

“What did he say?”

“Something about healing, fire, a weapon and a homeless home, from what I could gather. Oh and chains, betrayal, flying and falling.”

The relief was powerful enough to allow him to laugh despite the shivering. 

“Sounds like Varric’s next novel.”

Gabriel’s laughter joined his. 

“I should have written it down.”

He tried to avert his eyes as Gabriel undressed for the night, but he always caught himself greedily stealing glimpses of the other man’s form, picturing how those arms would feel wrapped around him, how warm that chest pressing against his back would be.

He fixed his eyes on a safe spot near the other man’s foot. 

It was strange - loving Gabriel wouldn’t bring him anything but impossible longing and pain, but he wouldn’t want to give it up. To never have felt this seemed unbearably sad. This hurt, but it was a good pain. Company. A friend.

“Bit for your thoughts? Or should I be offering silver at least?”

“What?”

“As much as I’d feel flattered, I can’t possibly believe my ankle is quite so interesting that you’d stare at it for five minutes straight just for its intrinsic value. Unless you think it might hold the secret to defeating Corypheus?” 

He sat close and held out his foot between them, a cheeky grin on his face. 

“If that’s the case then, by all means: we’ll study it together.”

* * *

Snow. It was always Maker-forsaken snow. One would think that, after having faced off Corypheus and having taken an avalanche to the face for his trouble, Andraste would intercede on his behalf and ask Her husband to spare Gabriel the sight of snow for at least an age, but, of course, it rather seemed as though the divine couple amused Themselves with throwing it at him at every turn.

Right now a snow storm was making the journey back to Skyhold a nightmare, and what was supposed to have been two and a half days had turned into more than four and they still had at least a day’s journey ahead of them. On top of it all some of their supplies had been lost, a bag with lyrium and healing potions, torn clean from Solas’s horse by the unrelenting wind. And Cullen was getting worse. 

Ill, the Commander was definitely ill, which was why Gabriel hadn’t even taken the tent down yet. Best to have Cullen ride with the other three while Gabriel took care of the tent on his own; he’d make better time reaching them if he were alone.

The last two days they had barely made it ten paces without having to set up the tents and being stuck in them - and if that didn’t seem like a scenario straight from The Randy Dowager he didn’t know what did - but the former Templar had spent most of the time sleeping - and uneasily at that - in his armour, his complexion turning more ashen with every passing moment. Gabriel had gone to his backpack for healing potions only to realise their own supply was rather more depleted than he’d believed, and he’d given Cullen his last potion last night. He didn’t think he had ever looked forward to the sight of Skyhold quite this much - not even the first time, fleeing Haven.

Gabriel was convinced the worst was almost over when the storm finally cleared, the world turned quiet and blanketed in an eery white stillness; in a day they’d be in Skyhold and Cullen would be taken care of. Only one more day, he thought, helping the other man onto his horse. The Commander had never leaned so heavily on him. 

“He’s sad,” Cole blurted, in his customary unexpected way, and it was odd to Gabriel’s ears to be able to so clearly make out someone’s voice after days of having to shout over howling winds, “he’s sad and he doesn’t want to cross, but he never gets what he wants. There were too many tails and not enough salt. He wouldn’t let me have this if he knew, but now he won’t know and I’ll take this with me when I go. Thank you.”

He hadn’t even begun to try and make sense (as if he could) of what Cole had said when, suddenly, Cullen slumped on his horse and slid, ever so slowly, to the floor, one of his feet still caught in the stirrup. The horse was a good mount and remained still, but the Commander wasn’t moving.

His hands trembled as he lifted the visor of Cullen’s helmet to touch his face - he was alive, thankfully, yet his breathing was laboured and he was burning up. Blackwall moved to help and lift the former Templar back onto the horse, but Gabriel knew it would be no good.

“He can’t ride like this, Blackwall. He can’t ride three paces, let alone a day. Help me get him back into the tent. Solas, can you heal him? He’s got a fever.”

The bald mage approached as Gabriel worked Cullen’s foot free from the stirrup, already shaking his head.

“I am sorry, Inquisitor. If we were in Skyhold I could maybe brew a potion, but I cannot heal, especially not knowing what caused the malady.”

“That’s alright. I’ll stay here with him and you three head for Skyhold, send help.”

“I’ll stay behind instead, Inquisitor,” the Warden replied, “you should head back to Skyhold straight away - you can never be too careful, and you never know what may be lurking out here in the snow.”

 _Lurking_. His feeling of being followed returned full force, but that only made him more determined to stay. He’d be dammed if he abandoned Cullen to his fate like that.

“All the more reason I should stay behind. If a rift opens up I can close it. Just- get help. He’s burning up and I’m no healer.”

He could see the disapproval in Blackwall’s countenance, but he paid it no mind; he wouldn’t be dragged from Cullen’s side and it was clear the Warden understood that there was no use arguing the point.

“Alright. Do you need help with his armour?” 

He could have used it, but he didn’t want to waste any more time. He’d have plenty of time to work on getting Cullen out of his armour while they were well on their way to get help. 

“Thanks, there’s no need, I’ll manage. Just help me get him in the tent, please. Do you still have any healing potions?” 

Between Cole and Blackwall they had five, but Gabriel didn’t feel right taking them all. He kept three, leaving the trio to share the other two in an emergency. Hopefully they wouldn’t be needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a game changer for OHAH. I've always meant to have Gabriel and Cullen alone in the snow - in fact the next chapter was one of the first things I wrote for this fic - but Cole basically wrote himself, and what he's saying by the fire changes _everything_. Here's hoping that, when the reveal comes in two or three chapters, you'll think I was terribly clever in how I described it, instead of hopelessly lost. 
> 
> As always, reviews are food for the soul.


	8. Eight

Removing Cullen’s armour with the Commander himself laying unconscious was a hard task, but Gabriel was too focused to notice. As soon as the helmet was off he was opening the other man’s lips and gently pouring one of the healing potions, a few drops at a time, down his throat; thankfully, after the first few attempts, Cullen’s swallow reflex seemed to kick in and he began taking in the tiny portions of liquid.

Once the entire bottle was empty, Gabriel started removing the rest of the armour. They had two days ahead of them, he’d do his utmost to respect Cullen’s modesty, but he was certainly not allowing him to stay in his armour the entire time.

The first think that assaulted him once he removed the chest piece was the smell. It was so bad he opted to cover his nose inside his own tunic in order to be able to ignore it for the time being.

Even more worried now than before he took a small dagger from his backpack and cut Cullen’s tunic open - he’d buy him a new one later, Void, he’d buy him a dozen - but there was no fresh wound on the former Templar’s chest or sides. It must be on his back, then.

Making short work of removing the rest of the armour - it was more pressing than a simple matter of comfort now - he was finally able turn Cullen on his stomach on the bedroll.

He thought he was going be sick at the sight that greeted him. The tunic was completely plastered to Cullen’s back, green liquid stuck to it, and the smell… It was the foul, putrid odor of rotting flesh. How was that possible? He hadn’t seen Cullen being injured from behind, and they all fought in such close quarters that it would be impossible not to notice it. And why wouldn’t the Commander say anything?

He tried to slice this side of the tunic open as well, but it was stuck to the other man’s back, and to pull it would mean causing him more damage and pain. He’d have to approach this differently.

Grabbing Cullen’s helmet he left the tent, taking in gulps of fresh air. He’d probably have to use a spell inside the tent for the air to he breathable if they were going to be stuck there for two days, but he’d rather live with the smell for now than to waste his magic on something so frivolous and then need the mana for something important.

He filled the helmet with fresh snow - half-wishing he hadn’t sent their horses along with the rest of the party, so he could have access to the assortment of bowls they travelled with, but also knowing he’d need to care for Cullen and not have to worry about caring for the horses as well - and went back inside, steeling himself.

There was a small bowl in his backpack - the others usually mocked his nobleborn habits, Sera especially, and having his own private bowl to mix ewe’s milk with his wheat in the mornings was a source of great amusement for everyone else, but he had never been so grateful for his posh upbringing as he was right now - and he transfered some of the snow to it, warming his fingers with the tiniest bit of magic to melt it, then gently pouring it down Cullen’s back. The bedroll was going to be soaked, but he could move Cullen to Gabriel’s once he was done cleaning and dressing his wounds.

It took some time but the tunic came unstuck at last and he was able to slice it open and begin pouring warm water directly onto Cullen’s abused back. It was a mess of pus and partially dried blood; it was only after most of it had been cleaned away and Gabriel had summoned some wisp lights that he was able to see the damage and, once his brain had made the connection, he couldn’t unsee it.

 _Maker,_ Cullen, _why would you do this?_

There was no way these wounds were anything other than self-inflicted. Which meant Cullen had to have inflicted them still in Skyhold or Gabriel would have noticed it.

Was it his way of coping with his addiction? To hurt himself like this? Surely there was a better way? Surely he knew Gabriel would do anything to help?

His vision blurred and he wiped his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. Cullen needed him now, it was not the time for tears, nor for dwelling on the former Templar’s motivations.

Gabriel wasn’t entirely sure if it would be better to leave the wound to dry in the open air or to put some dressing on it - he was no healer, as he’d told Blackwall - but he had to make a choice. He didn’t have proper dressing on hand, but he did have spare clean tunics - one more posh noble habit of his - and he wasn’t above cutting one up. Would it better or worse?

Strike three in the list of habits that amused his companions to no end was Gabriel’s nigh-obsession with herbs. He made a point of collecting as many as he could wherever he went, and inside his trusty backpack there were also stalks of elfroot. He’d dress the wounds but saturate the strips of cloth in grounded elfroot first. He wished he had Royal Elfroot or Prophet’s Laurel, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Cullen had barely stirred the entire time but his colour was slightly better, his forehead a bit less warm to the touch, if still feverish. The healing potion was helping. Gabriel tossed the warm water outside and set to work grounding elfroot in the bowl with the pommel of his dagger for the makeshift dressing, talking to Cullen’s prone form, praying his companions would make it in time.

* * *

Gentle, caring, cool fingertips on his forehead. Everything hurt. Was he still alive? He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids were too heavy and he could only make out glimpses of light. There was a soothing voice - _Gabriel_ ’s voice - but he couldn’t make out the words.

The fingers slid down his face, stopped at his neck to feel his pulse. An entire hand cupped his cheek on the opposite side for balance.

He’d been sure he was dying before, holding on to Gabriel to remain on his horse; while he didn’t _want_ to die, he’d been convinced there could be no better death, but this, the other man’s bare fingers on his skin, touching him so tenderly… This was even better, so much better. So much better than the death he deserved.

The world faded to black again.

* * *

It wasn’t enough.

The healing potion that had returned to Cullen a little of his colour was already losing its effect and the other man hadn’t even had the strength to wake up yet. Cullen’s temperature was also rising.

It couldn’t have been more than a couple of hours since he’d sent Cole, Solas and Blackwall on their way. The infection was stronger than Gabriel had imagined, and he only had two potions left. He should have begged to keep them all but, even if he had, that would mean ten hours, maybe twelve - it still wouldn’t have been enough time.

He bit back tears, his mind frantically trying to figure out what else he could do.

Cullen’s back was dressed in the elfroot bandages, which would need changing soon. He wouldn’t have enough herbs to change them as often as he’d like. There was a very delicate, very modified Winter’s Grasp on the Commander’s back - he may be no healer, but surely freezing the infection site couldn’t hurt - and he’d removed the other man’s socks to keep the fever down.

He wished, not for the first time, that he’d trained in Spirit Healing in the Circle, that he had asked Fiona to teach him, or that one of the trainers sent to him had been a Spirit Healer. Void, he’d have gladly taken instructions from the mage who had started this entire war - _he_ had been a Spirit Healer, if rumours were to be believed - if it meant having the chance to heal the man he loved.

To think that a few days ago his biggest hurt was that Cullen was going away to be happy by his lover’s side… Selfish, why was he so selfish? Maker, please, this wasn’t what he meant when he’d wished the former Templar wouldn’t go, this wasn’t what he meant at all. Right now he’d like nothing better than to see Cullen happy in Hawke’s arms, Maker, _please_ , he’d be more careful with his wishes in the future but, please, not Cullen.

He rummaged through his backpack in the hopes of finding something else that might prove useful but he was fresh out of miracles. He found his purse filled with coin and felt unreasonably angry; of all the things he could have kept with him, coin was the most useless of them all. He should have chosen better what went back to Skyhold and what stayed with them, but he’d been more concerned with getting their companions on their way so that help might come sooner. Now it seemed _sooner_ might still be too late.

Cullen’s pulse was steadily declining. Gabriel could try to give him both remaining potions in the hopes that they would force his body to react and start fighting the infection on its own, but then he’d be out of potions. He was looking at two days and he’d be out of potions - he had some elfroot, which he would have gladly used for more potions instead of for the bandages, but none of the other ingredients required to brew more.

Maker, what should he do?

Cullen started shivering uncontrollably, his limbs flailing, his teeth clacking, something between a moan and a scream emanating from his throat, and the decision was taken away from him. He had to try the potions, but how could he get a flask near the other man’s mouth, let alone two?

He cast a paralysis glyph, hating that he had no better way of doing this, and Cullen was immediately and unnaturally still. Then he manoeuvred the other man onto his side in order to grasp his shoulders, careful not touch his wounds, and sat him on the floor, sliding one of his hands behind Cullen’s neck so he could tilt his head back.

Now the tricky part began.

He placed three or four drops of potion in Cullen’s mouth and waited for his tongue to absorb them before repeating the process. Once a third of the flask had been consumed - roughly an hour after he’d begun the excruciatingly long process - he risked laying the Commander on his side and stepping back a safe distance before removing the glyph.

The convulsions started back instantly. He waited for a minute or two and was about to cast a second glyph, afraid Cullen might choke on his own tongue, when they began to subside. Ten minutes after that they were gone entirely and Gabriel risked approaching, flask in hand. The former Templar still hadn’t regained consciousness, but his body was cooperating again, and having him sit up and drink the rest of the first potion was easy. Gabriel hoped against hope he wasn’t making a terrible mistake when he unstoppered their last potion and fed it to Cullen. They were in the Maker’s hands now.

He lay next to the man he loved and took one of his hands in his own, to monitor his vital signs and reassure himself that Cullen was still alive. The next half an hour was the longest of his life, but then, an eternity later, the Commander opened his fever-bright eyes and looked straight at him.

“Gabriel?”

“Cullen! Maker, _Cullen_! Don’t scare me like that! How do you feel?”

“’m sorry.” the former Templar’s voice was sluggish and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch. “Didn’t mean to be a nuisance.”

“A nuisan-” He stopped himself and exhaled, a nervous laugh escaping. “Only you would scare me half to death and then call it a nuisance. No, let me guess: a misuse of inquisition resources? I quite agree. Kindly return to full health immediately and stop being wasteful, Commander.” He was channeling Dorian in his last sentence, and knew that, just as the Tevinter mage, he was masking his pain with humour.

Cullen’s smile was sad, lucid despite the fever.

“Don’t think I’ll make it this time, Gabriel. You… It’s been an honour and a privilege. And more, much more. Thank you… For everything.”

 _No._ No, no, no, no, just… _no_. A day and a half. Cullen could hold on that long, Gabriel just had to give him something to hold on _to_. And maybe play up his odds a little.

“Nonsense, of course you’ll make it. We have plenty of potions, you’ll make it if I have to stuff one down your throat every hour. They’ll be here soon with a healer anyway. Just think of the pile of reports waiting for you back in Skyhold.”

There was less sadness and more hope in Cullen’s smile now. Good, that was good.

“Besides,” he continued encouragingly, Hawke’s plans for secrecy be damned, “there’s something I haven’t told you yet. A surprise.”

“For me?”

There was such boyish curiosity in Cullen’s tone that Gabriel’s heart swelled. He could understand why Hawke would want to deliver that piece of good news in person, if this was his lover’s reaction to the mere idea of a surprise. But it was his job to get Cullen out of here alive, not cater to Hawke’s whims.

“I received a letter a while back. Hawke has been working in Kirkwall, helping the city get back on its feet.” Cullen had tensed at the mention of Kirkwall. “He wants to work with the Inquisition on a more permanent basis. There’s a position for you there, with him, as liaison to the Inquisition.”

“Please, no.” Cullen’s moan was heartbreaking and Gabriel didn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s not just a title, Cullen.” He was probably concerned he was going to stop being useful in this war. “You’ll be doing good work there, as important as the work you’ve been doing in Skyhold.”

“Please, Gabriel.” Cullen’s face was contorted in grief. “Don’t send me to Hawke. Don’t keep me alive for the healers. _Please_. Let me die.”

Gabriel’s heart was crushed. Why? Why was Cullen asking for death after all he’d survived? He had resisted lyrium, had kicked off such a terribly powerful addiction all on his own, had led the Inquisition’s soldiers to countless victories without it, had reunited with the man he loved, now had the possibility of making that reunion permanent… Why would he do this? Hurting himself so badly as to cause an infection, begging to be left to die rather than allowing himself some happiness… Was his self-loathing so great? Had the fall of Haven been his breaking point?

He caressed Cullen’s hand in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.

“That’s the fever talking, not you. You’re going to be alright. You have to be strong - the Champion is waiting for you-”

Cullen’s grief seemed to grow unimaginably.

“ _Please_. To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker, but if you’d allow me this… Whatever I’ve done, however I’ve failed you, however I’ve wronged you… Please don’t send me to Hawke. Let me die here. Looking at you. Or leave me here if you can’t stomach the sight of me, but don’t send me to Hawke.”

He pulled his hands away from the other man’s as if he’d been burned.

“If I can’t stand the sight - why would you say such a thing?”

Did he think him that petty? Did he think that, having had his affections rebuffed only to discover him with Hawke, he’d hate the former Templar? Enough to leave him to die, alone in the snow? He was overcome by sadness at the thought.

“I hope that is only the fever, because if it isn’t… You must truly think I’m a monster if you believe I’d be capable of that.”

Cullen was assaulted by violent shivers, whether from the infection or from the modified Winter’s Grasp he couldn’t say, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat, his eyes still fever-bright but clearer than they had seemed only a minute before.

“Forgive me. You’ve been a dear friend. The very best of friends, Gabriel. If… If Hawke has offered his support in exchange for this then I’ll go.”

Two tears ran down the sides of the Commander’s face, and Gabriel was baffled.

“I don’t understand, Cullen. Don’t you _want_ to go?”

“I’ll make you proud, Inquisitor.” From Gabriel to Inquisitor, from close friend to dutiful Commander in the blink of an eye. “You have my word.”

“Sod my pride and sod your word! I’m asking _you_ , Cullen! And don’t give me the duty crap about being needed to command the Inquisition’s soldiers, yes, it will be a blow to lose you, but we’ll make do. I’m not asking the Commander, I’m asking my friend. You’ve gone through so much already - don’t you want to be with the man you love? Don’t you finally deserve a reward for everything you’ve done? Solace from the addiction you’ve overcome?”

Each word was a shard of ice in his heart - how he wished he could be that reward, offer that solace - but he couldn’t let Cullen trample his own chance at happiness for blind duty.

“I’ve overcome nothing, deserve less than nothing. You don’t know- you have no idea… You don’t know me, Gabriel. What I am, what I’ve done - you wouldn’t waste your time on me if you knew.”

Gabriel started viciously grounding more elfroot to change the bandages on Cullen’s back, as much because they needed changing after all his convulsing as because he needed to do _something_. He couldn’t make sense of what had turned Cullen into this entity of hurt and self-contempt.

“Then _tell me_. Tell me why you don’t think you deserve to be happy.” _‘So I can prove you wrong’_ remained unsaid. “Tell me why overcoming your lyrium addiction amounts to nothing in your book.”

Cullen let out a bitter laugh, followed by a coughing fit that shook his frame.

"I had lyrium not that long ago, Gabriel. I begged for it. You think I’m strong but I’m weak. I’m pathetic. I begged for it and then I went to you the next day and only told you half a story - I didn’t tell you how I’d had it the day before, how I could see so many strategies that I can’t without it… How after having had it I wrote them down but then without it couldn’t make sense of what I’d written.

“I only told you half a story because I’m selfish. Because I was hoping you wouldn’t say I should be taking it when I knew - I _know_! -I should be taking it. I am so much less without it, and yet all I could think of was not losing my mind. But I could take it again,” his tone was heartbreakingly hopeful, “if you’d allow me to stay I would gladly do that. Give you my all this time. To the Inquisition.”

So _this_ was what his self-loathing was about. He’d faltered on his path to rid himself of addiction and now he didn’t believe he deserved to be with Hawke. And perhaps this explained the rest, the self-flagelation, how quickly infection had set in, how vulnerable he was. To go so far without lyrium only to fall back to the first step must be devastating.

And it was more than that. This man, this incredibly brave man that he loved, wanted to go back to his addiction not out of being an addict but because he didn’t want to give less than what he could, no matter how much it end up costing him.

He gently turned to the other man’s back and started carefully removing the used bandages.

“You _are_ strong, Cullen. Don’t ever doubt that. And you’ll always have a home in Skyhold if you want it - I would never want you to go back to lyrium. _Never_. You know that. It’s cost you too much already and your worth isn’t measured by it. It was a misstep, a bump in the road. I don’t think less of you because of it, and Hawke won’t either. He’ll help you get through it.”

He hadn’t thought Cullen’s laugh could be more desolate, but there it was.

“I could have said no to lyrium. He gave me that choice. I could have said no, but I begged for it.”

 _He_ had given him a choice? _Hawke_? He’d had the opportunity to talk Cullen out of it and given in to his begging instead? He felt such a stab of hatred for the Champion his gut twisted. He understood not wanting to deny Cullen anything, least of all if he had been, by his own admission, begging, but to have the ability to help Cullen through the pain and addiction and choose the easy way - that would have, and had, end up costing the former Templar so much more - was unforgivable.

Looking at the result now, at Cullen’s ruined back, at all the suffering he’d put himself through, how could he not hate Hawke? Hawke, who’d been given such a precious gift in the form of Cullen’s affections but who was clearly not up to the responsibility a relationship with the former Templar entailed? Hawke who had readily handed over the lyrium Cullen craved even though he knew how it would destroy him?

He set to lovingly cleaning Cullen’s back, less certain now than only minutes before that sending him to Hawke was the better option. Was that why he didn’t want to go? Because he didn’t trust himself and knew Hawke would cave, that the Champion couldn’t be strong enough for him?

“It’s alright, Cullen. You may have faltered but that doesn’t make you any less strong. You haven’t given up, you just stumbled on the way. You’re human. And Hawke… I shouldn’t judge him _in absentia_ , but, Maker’s breath, he gave you _lyrium_?”

He must have grazed a particularly tender spot of flesh because Cullen whimpered under his touch. It killed him to see the normally stoic Commander so broken, so fragile. It was hard to tell by the wisp light, but his fingers could feel old scars underneath the open skin. The extent of the former Templar’s suffering was something he could only guess at. And Hawke had given him lyrium.

“I begged. I could have chosen to endure it, but I begged.”

Cullen’s shoulders shook with what Gabriel assumed were tears and he fought the urge to kiss the skin around every injury on the other man’s back. His friendship was valued, everything else was not. Taking advantage of Cullen’s fragile state, of his shattered hopes, under the guise of comforting him would be beyond despicable.

“You are the bravest, strongest person I’ve ever met. But no one can live up to the ideals you’ve set for yourself. If you judged me by the same measure you judge yourself you’d never have endured my friendship.”

The former Templar’s reply came out muffled and then he turned his head to the side so that Gabriel could hear him. As the Inquisitor had guessed, there were tear tracks on the other man’s face. He patiently applied the new bandages, eager to alleviate what little suffering he could.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew.”

“What? What have you imagined is so terrible that you keep hinting I’d run screaming ‘if I knew’? Have you murdered little children in their beds? Because I’m having trouble believing that.”

Cullen let out a broken sigh that was equal parts wheezing and closed his eyes in defeat.

“Very well. I’ve been hiding it, but I owe it to you. You have the right to know. You’re a mage.”

“Last I checked, yes.”

“That alone should be reason enough. I… I’ve never told anyone what happened to me at the Ferelden Circle. There were blood mages. Demons. I was their prisoner for weeks. Their _plaything_. Until the Warden came and liberated the tower. There were other mages left as well, innocent mages. A healer. Children. And then I pushed for the Right of Annulment.”

Gabriel tried but couldn’t suppress a gasp. Murdering little children in their beds indeed.

“You always insist on seeing the best in people, Gabriel. I’ve never been able to tell if that’s a quality or a fault. But if I’m confessing then it’s far from over.”

The bandages were applied now and there was nothing left to do except sit on the floor and listen. Cullen turned fully on his side but stared into the distance rather than looking at him.

“The Warden - he was a circle mage himself - denied my request, and I was angry, I was so angry… Then they sent me to Kirkwall. Meredith was so different from Gregoir… harsher, stricter. I felt safer there than I had in Ferelden. And so I turned a blind eye when Tranquility began being used as a punishment or a preventative measure. I felt everyone was safer that way. Maddox? I didn’t lift a finger when he was made Tranquil for sending letters to his lover. In my mind his lover might have been a blood mage, his letters a secret code. I was so paranoid…”

Another gasp he couldn’t stifle. Cullen had seen Harrowed mages being turned Tranquil as a preventative measure and done nothing? Had _wanted_ it to happen? But then…

“And me? If not for the Anchor would you have had me made Tranquil if you could?”

Even lying down Cullen recoiled.

" _Maker_. If I had met you at the time… I… Maker forgive me, Gabriel, if I had met you before I would have. I let my fear control me for too long. I was a monster. But by the time I left the Templars I had already begun to see how terribly wrong my actions had been.

"I’m glad the Warden didn’t allow the Right, at least. I’ve had to live with knowing what I wanted, but I haven’t had to live with those deaths on my conscience. All because I wasn’t strong enough to see the difference between innocent mages and blood mages, because I wasn’t strong enough to endure the demons without breaking.

"Then I convinced myself in Kirkwall that mages weren’t like _normal_ people. That it was alright to make them Tranquil so that _normal_ people would be safe.

"I forgot that a Templar’s true calling is to protect the mages under his care as much as it is protecting the rest of the people _from_ them. Perhaps even more so.

“But I can honestly say that by the time I met you I didn’t think like that anymore.”

Gabriel let out the breath he’d been holding since asking his question. Cullen had gone through terrible ordeals and made terrible choices - yes, had become a terrible person. But he’d overcome that. He’d fought that, trying to find his way back to who he had been before Lake Calenhad.

What had happened during his captivity must have been truly loathsome, but he’d still had enough of himself left to bring himself back from the abyss. All alone, with no one to guide him. Meredith, according to everything he’d heard, had been a raving madwoman with a corrupted red lyrium sword, she could hardly have been the guiding force he would have undoubtedly needed from a commanding officer.

It… It sickened him, it pained him, but he had no right to judge the other man.

Cullen finally looked at him and Gabriel hadn’t imagined there could be this amount of pain in anyone’s eyes.

“There you have it. What I am, what I’ve done - what I only didn’t do because I wasn’t given the chance. You know everything now. And now I’ve gone and ruined the only truly good thing I’ve ever had. I’ve lost your friendship. But you deserved to know. Please, don’t… don’t say anything? Do me that final kindness? Don’t tell me you hate me?”

“Cullen. No, don’t look away, look at me.”

Resigned pain filtered through unshed tears.

“I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. It was horrible, yes, but you aren’t that person anymore. I’m still your friend.”

A damn broke inside Cullen, his shoulders shaking violently, his breath coming in gasps, tears streaming down his face.

“Thank you. Thank you for lying. _Thank you_.”

For lying? He thought he was -

“Cullen, I’m not lying.”

Impulsively he lay on the floor next to the other man and pulled him into his arms, hand caressing the blond curls on the back of his head. He’d tried to be strong, to not take advantage, but this? This broken, bruised soul in his arms? He had to hold him, and it wasn’t just for selfish reasons. He was offering comfort as well as he could. It was the only way he could make Cullen _believe_. He’d give anything to take away the former Templar’s suffering.

“I’m not lying, Maker, I _swear_. If I had met you before, it might have been different. We probably wouldn’t have become friends. But that’s done now, and you _matter_. You matter to me. I’m still your friend. I’m here for you, Cullen. I will always be here.”

Cullen’s arms came around him in a vice-like grip even as he denied Gabriel’s words, tear-stained cheeks making wet patches on his robes.

“You can’t… you can’t mean that. You can’t mean that, not now, not now that you _know_ … You can’t mean that. You’ve been the one good thing… The one truly good thing in my life. But you can’t possibly forgive me for who I am.”

It was on the tip of his tongue.

It was on the tip of his tongue, this love that he felt, and he had to bite it because if Cullen knew then this moment would be tainted. He felt bad enough for having taken advantage of Cullen’s feverish state to discover the past he would have clearly preferred to have kept hidden without adding unwanted physical interaction to the mix. The only good to come of this was that Cullen seemed to be fighting the infection, and every minute was a victory.

He’d comfort him like this, hand on the back of his head because the small of his back was hurt and covered in bandages, he’d let Cullen hold on to him for as long as he’d like, but he wouldn’t allow the other man to know how much he still loved him. Cullen was so vulnerable that Gabriel believed he’d allow anything so he wouldn’t be left alone right now, and the last thing he wanted was for the former Templar to give himself out of despair.

He’d be a true friend - no hinting at wanting what Cullen couldn’t genuinely offer. Besides, he had Hawke waiting for him. Hawke, who would offer the sort of comfort Gabriel was unable to give. Hawke, who’d given him lyrium. Hawke, who was also a mage but who Cullen apparently didn’t think incapable of forgiveness. The thought smarted more than it should.

“Shhh. Shh, it’s done, it’s forgiven, it’s gone. It’s in the past, Cullen. I don’t have to forgive you for who you are because you are a lot more than what you allow yourself to see. And who you _were_ isn’t important anymore. I’m still your friend.”

All the pain Cullen had endured, and he’d had the power to prevent none of it. To heal none of it. Hawke had had that power, to prevent a small part of such tremendous pain. And he’d squandered it.

“You can’t possibly imagine how much I wish that were true.”

“Why?” His hurt was showing. “Why won’t you believe me, Cullen? Hawke is a mage as well, he better than anyone must know what happened in Kirkwall. Why is it that you don’t question that Hawke can remain steadfast by your side and yet you don’t even consider my friendship might be true? Have I given you cause to doubt me?”

“Hawke isn’t… it’s not what you think.”

One more thing that was apparently not what he thought. He wanted to demand the truth but he had no right to pry any further. As it turned out he needn’t have bothered - with a shudder and further tightening of his arms Cullen continued talking.

“Carver Hawke is dead. He became a red Templar and Hawke had to slay him. I recruited him into the Order and then left Kirkwall to join the Inquisition and left him to fend for himself. My fault.”

Oh, Maker. Was there no end to the things Cullen was determined to blame himself for?

“What you once said to me… For the longest time after that I toyed with the idea of paying a visit to your quarters. Your reputation preceded you when we first met, I knew I had no skills to offer, I knew I’d be a bumbling fool but… Perhaps you would have found the idea of the thirty-something year-old virgin Templar amusing enough for a night.”

He… What? Were they still speaking of Hawke?

“It was foolish, of course. The demons, the things they did… they may not have been physically real, but I scarce knew the difference. Considering myself a virgin was the ultimate act of denial. But I held on to that notion - imagined countless times how it would be, how the night would turn out if only I had the courage to actually do it. I think the only reason why I didn’t was because then I’d have nothing else to hope for once it was done.”

His heart was hammering inside his chest. He didn’t know if Cullen’s fever - that seemed to have broken, but what if it hadn’t? - was causing him to speak to him, Gabriel, as though he were speaking to Hawke. Or was he imagining _Carver_ Hawke? Wanting to go to his quarters after he had been recruited, finding solace with his brother instead when he’d learned of his passing. That… That made more sense than what it _seemed_ he was saying. Cullen’s voice had dropped to a broken whisper.

“And then Hawke was forced to kill Carver, and he came to Skyhold and took his pound of flesh. And I was left with nothing to offer _you_ \- not even for a night.”

Gabriel didn’t- he couldn’t- Hawke had- _that_ had been what he’d walked into?

“Cullen?” His own voice sounded small and foreign. “Did I… Did I walk into Hawke _raping_ you? Did I walk into that and leave you there?”

“It’s alright, Gabriel. It wasn’t like that. I could have stopped him if I’d tried. But he was right. I owed him that much. The thought of losing my sisters, my brother… It’s unbearable. He was angry and in pain, and it wasn’t as if I had anything to lose.”

Oh, _Maker_.

“You owed… And the lyrium?”

“He said he could take me dry. Or he could use lyrium. Blue, not red like Carver’s. And I was a coward. I chose lyrium. It’s why I… Why I began doing what I did again. I hadn’t used the flogger since Kirkwall.”

There were few certainties Gabriel had in his life, but one of them was that, the next time he crossed paths with Hawke, only one of them would walk away.

So many things… There were so many things he wanted to say to Cullen, all trying to be said at once, and he didn’t know where to start but he couldn’t be silent either.

“I failed you. Cullen, I’m so sorry. I left you there… I left you there to…”

He choked on the words. After all Cullen had been through and after all of Gabriel’s claims of friendship, he had discovered the man he loved being _raped_ and had abandoned him to his fate. Had - Maker! - had, in a fit of jealousy, given him the cold shoulder the day after that, to the point where Cullen had apologised for imagined slights. And then he’d told him he was shipping him off to his rapist.

_Whatever I’ve done, however I’ve failed you, however I’ve wronged you… Please don’t send me to Hawke._

And then Cullen had turned and promised to make him _proud_.

“Gabriel, you didn’t fail me. I let him take his due.”

“Stop saying it was his due!”

He hadn’t meant to raise his voice. Cullen let go of him at once, his eyes shuttered, and Gabriel felt the loss acutely.

“Forgive me, I… I will stop.”

So much pain in only a few words. And Cullen had said that he, Gabriel, was the one good thing in his life - how little joy he must have known in his years. His dream of being a Templar to protect people twisted, his innocence taken from him in the worst possible way, his trust abused by commanding officer and Chantry alike, the lyrium held like a sword over his head… And then _Hawke_ had happened.

Part of him wanted to pull away, to keep some distance between them, to not take advantage of the other man’s pain to hold him close. The other, louder, more insistent part, wouldn’t let him forget that Cullen had clearly needed the contact, that him being fragile and vulnerable also meant Gabriel shouldn’t take away the sliver of tenderness the other man had found in his arms. That part won and he let his forehead touch Cullen’s, his hand moving from the back of the Commander’ head to caress his cheek.

"I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scream.

Cullen’s lips formed an O of surprise and then - very slowly this time, as if he were afraid of being shunned - the Commander brought his arms around Gabriel once more.

“I’m here for you, Cullen, I always will be. I… I thought I always _had_ , but I left you there… And he had no right, no right to any of it. All that you are is yours to give, not anyone’s to take. I can’t change what happened, but I can promise you Hawke will never again set foot in Skyhold for as long as I live. _Never again._ ”

Cullen’s face seemed marginally closer, the air between them charged. He could feel the Commander’s breath on his face, a whisper, an intimate caress, and it was almost as if… Almost as if Cullen wanted him to kiss him, but Gabriel couldn’t be sure and he’d never risk presuming, even less so now, when so much had already been taken by force from the beautiful man in front of him. He looked him in the eyes, deep, trying to read him, trying to understand what that spark might be.

“Cullen, I… If there is anything you want that I can give, anything at all, all you need to do is ask, and it’ll be yours.”

The spark went out immediately and Cullen let go of him once more, painfully sitting up as quickly as his injuries and his fever would allow him to, backing up to further the distance between them. His voice was more filled with hurt now than it had been throughout all of his retelling. Gabriel felt the loss of Cullen in his arms as a sharp pain in his chest.

“I see. It was wrong for Hawke to take from me, but taking from you should be allowed. You’d turn me into _him_.”

 _What_?

It was Gabriel’s turn to sit up and back away from Cullen to give him the space he clearly wanted.

“Maker, no! Cullen, I… _No_. You could never turn into him. You’d never take what wasn’t offered, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I let him take what he needed, if I’d fought I could have stopped him-”

“But you didn’t offer! You didn’t want-”

“And _you_ want? You? You who could have anyone truly wish to waste your time with a washed up, _used up_ Templar who lets himself be used like a cheap whore with none of the corresponding skill? You want a shell of a man whose commitment to rid himself of addiction only extended to where he thought it would hurt? You want a desire demon’s sloppy seconds? _Hawke’s_ sloppy seconds? You want _this_?”

_‘The demons, the things they did… they may not have been physically real, but I scarce knew the difference. Considering myself a virgin was the ultimate act of denial.’_

Maker. He had heard the words but hadn’t really grasped their meaning. His subconscious attempting to shield him from the truth.

 _’Demons. I was their prisoner for weeks. Their_ plaything. _’_

Cullen had spent _weeks_ being sexualy assaulted by demons and as a result of his trauma had been shipped off to Kirkwall, of all places. It was a miracle he had managed to survive it at all, let alone emerge on the other side as this brave, intelligent, fiercely loyal man who was strong enough to fight his lyrium addiction every day.

_‘I had lyrium not that long ago, Gabriel.’_

Who, after everything Hawke had put him through, had had the strength to not go back to taking lyrium - had gone right back to that painful first step, all alone, with no help.

 _’a washed up,_ used up _Templar who lets himself be used like a cheap whore’_ _‘sloppy seconds’_

Who loathed himself so very much it hurt. Gabriel had been silent for too long and Cullen mistook his silence for assent. The Commander let his shoulders slump defeatedly and closed his eyes, looking drained. He had the presence of mind to at least allow his head to fall forward into his hands, rather than press his abused back to the tent. Gabriel had to say something.

"I do want you. You are _no one_ ’s sloppy seconds, and you’d have words with anyone who dared say that about anyone else but you. More than words, I imagine.

"You’re a good person, Cullen. _Good._ You may not have been back in Kirkwall, but you certainly are now. I am so proud to call you my friend… You’re kind, you’re brave, you’re strong and you deserve nothing of what you went through. You would never be a waste of my time.

“I have wanted you every day since Haven; nothing I heard here today changes that. The only thing that changed is that I wouldn’t have brought it up before - I _haven’t,_ not since you said you weren’t interested - but you said things today that made me think maybe you were and I had to ask. I won’t bring it up ever again if you don’t want me to, but, I… I had to ask.”

Cullen had opened his eyes and was staring at him looking bewildered.

“ _Maker_ ,” he exhaled, and then seemed unable to utter anything at all. The silence stretched on uncomfortably while Cullen seemed to try - and _fail_ \- to find words for what he was trying to convey, and suddenly Gabriel was terribly afraid he had misjudged the entire situation and that Cullen simply didn’t know how to tell him to back off.

“Cullen, I’m sorry,” he blurted, utterly ashamed of his assumptions, “I shouldn’t have said anything. I wanted - I was trying to - I - I’m so sorry. Do you want me to go? I can go outside for a couple of hours while you rest. I - I’ll go now. You should get some rest.”

He got up and turned to leave, heart hammering madly, feeling nauseous. Grabbing his backpack was like holding on to a lifeline for how comfortingly solid it felt in his hands. Cullen had trusted him - he’d _trusted him_! - with his story and his secrets and Gabriel had repaid him by putting him in an untenable position. He had-

“Gabriel, _please_.”

Cullen’s voice was much closer than he had anticipated and he turned abruptly, startled to find the other man on his feet only a breath away. The Commander was surprisingly silent when not in armour, although his unsteady posture told Gabriel just how much the upright position must be costing him.

And then Cullen was kissing him. Cullen was kissing him. Cullen. Kissing _him_.

He barely had time to savour it, to cherish the feeling of hands on his face and beloved lips against his own, let alone respond, before it was over. Cullen took a step back looking lost, nervously rubbing his neck.

“Did I overstep? Gabriel, I’m sorry I-”

“Shhhhhhh,” he whispered, regaining that one step and placing his hand on the other man’s cheek, “you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. That was perfect. Do you think we might-”

“ _Yes_ ,” Cullen interrupted, and then lips were on his again but this time Gabriel was fully prepared to reciprocate.

* * *

Cullen didn’t know what to do next. There was such a thing as something too good happening. His deepest wish was unfolding - _Gabriel was kissing him_ \- and he was afraid one wrong move might shatter the moment completely before it was even finished. He felt elated and terrified all at once. Gabriel knew - he _knew_ \- the worst of him and that still hadn’t driven him away. Cullen wanted to give him _everything_.

He felt dizzy. The fever, the chills, the pain that seemed to be ice and fire in his back, coupled with this man in front of him, kissing him, this man whom he loved so much and who apparently _wanted him_ despite everything he was were more than enough to make him sway on the spot, his vision blurring.

He didn’t want to die, Maker, _please_ , not now that this was happening in his life, please, Maker, just let him have this, just a little bit longer. He didn’t think he’d make it back to Skyhold - he _knew_ they couldn’t possibly have even half as many potions as Gabriel had claimed -, but just a little bit longer. Just a little. Please.

Then Gabriel had taken a step back and was supporting him, guiding him to lie back down on his side, on a clean bedroll and then kissing him again. It would be a good death but, please, could he just live a little more of this before his time was up? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever been this happy. Not since before Kinloch Hold, certainly.

Gabriel didn’t seem to be in a hurry, but Cullen didn’t want to come across as an inept fool - well, any more than he already had, that was - and he didn’t want to disappoint, didn’t want to lose his one chance to be with him. He wasn’t hard yet. The man he loved was kissing him, was caressing his face, was lying close to him, it was all he had ever dreamed of, shouldn’t he be hard by now? He was going to ruin this and it had barely begun, why wasn’t he hard yet? What was wrong with him?

Maybe - yes, that was it. Maybe if he took off his trousers and underthings, and if he touched himself, he’d get hard faster and Gabriel might consider it a show and not the failings of an inexperienced man.

Nervously he brought his hands to his trousers, fumbling with the laces. His hands were shaking, there was no way Gabriel would see this for anything but what it actually was but he soldiered on. He couldn’t have fallen so low as to be unable to unfasten his own trousers. The mage stopped kissing him and grabbed his hands, stilling them before moving back a little to look at him properly.

“Cullen? What… What exactly are you doing?”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He’d done it. He’d ruined it. He destroyed everything, it should have been no surprise.

“I thought… You said you wanted, and I thought…”

He was out of tears, but the pain was made all the more unbearable by their lack. Had he hallucinated all the unbelievable things Gabriel had told him? Had it all been a fever dream? Well of course, what else could it have been? Gabriel truly still wanting _him_ after knowing what he’d done? He was pathetic.

A gentle hand brushed his cheek and he leaned into the touch. If there was one demon who could never be said to have a hold on him, it was Pride.

“I _do_ want, Cullen, but, Maker, not today. Not while you’re hurt and ill. When we’re back in Skyhold, when you’ve healed, when you’re well, when you’re ready, _then_ if you’re still willing. We don’t have to rush anything.”

“Oh.”

He hadn’t known he’d been holding his breath until all the air rushed out of him in that one syllable, a relieved half laugh. Not a fever dream. He hadn’t ruined it. Gabriel still wanted him, was even willing to wait for him until he was better. Had even - Maker, the idea was ludicrous! - thought to consider Cullen might not be willing by then anymore. The mage’s voice was firm.

“Cullen, you know we don’t have to do anything, right? Not today, not ever, not if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to-”

“Right,” the other man interrupted, “but if you don’t. You know if you stop wanting something all you ever need to do is say so, right? You say stop and I’ll stop, no questions asked, no matter how far along we are. You know that?”

“I do.”

“And you know that stopping that part doesn’t mean stopping anything else if you don’t want to? Doesn’t mean stopping this?”

He could have wept anew. Gabriel was saying Cullen would still be allowed these kisses even if he didn’t want the rest? Which he did, but… Maker, why would the other man waste his time on an emotionally stunted bigot like himself? It was one thing to desire him - he knew he wasn’t an unattractive man, despite his many failings - but quite another to go that far. Was Gabriel sacrificing his own desires out of friendship? Pity?

“I… I do now.”

But it didn’t matter. Cullen did want him, he’d _always_ want him, but he knew he wouldn’t live to have it. Anything Gabriel saw fit to offer Cullen would greedily accept. Yet the stress of having to give an acceptable performance had been lifted for now and that was a blessing.

He brought his arms around the mage once more and kissed him, his nervousness gone for the time being. Of course, _now_ that it was no longer a necessity his traitorous body took an interest, but he paid it no mind, simply enjoying Gabriel’s heart-wrenching kisses.

A huge part of him wanted to confess - to look the man he loved in the eyes and say “I love you,” just once in his life. He’d never said those words to anyone other than his parents and siblings, he would have been proud to utter them to Gabriel. Just once before he died.

But he wouldn’t do that to the other man. He couldn’t weigh him down with such an unwanted revelation after everything he’d already confessed. This… This was more than enough. This was _everything_.

And Gabriel was… He was so much more than Cullen had ever dared dream… So gentle, so giving, so… everything. If Cullen allowed himself the folly it would be easy to pretend that this was more than what it was. That he was _beloved_.

He knew he should nip it in the bud, control his fledgling imagination, but he was only going to have this one time, so just this once - _just this once_ \- he would take these kisses and these touches and he would pretend. He wasn’t taking anything from Gabriel for it, and it would be such a sweet memory to take with him… It was worth it for the dream.

The former Templar wished he had more to offer - more experience, more strength of character, more allure - but the fact that what he did have seemed to be enough for Gabriel, enough for Cullen to be on the receiving end of the tender look in the other man’s eyes was overwhelming.

Unfortunately, it didn’t stop his back from burning agonisingly, or the returning fever from draining his energies, and sooner - much, much sooner - than what Cullen would have hoped he was too wrecked to be much of a participant. And yet Gabriel understood, kissing his sweat-soaked forehead, holding him close even as he felt himself fade. Allowing him to go feeling safe and cherished and _loved_.

_Thank you, Maker. Thank you._

* * *

No. _Please._ Cullen was doing so well, he’d been awake, talking, _kissing him_ … Please, it couldn’t end like this.

Gabriel got up and rummaged through both his and Cullen’s backpacks, turning them over so their contents scattered on the floor of the tent when a first search proved unfruitful. There was nothing there. Tunics and underthings, sword polish and rags for it in Cullen’s, stupid fucking coin in his. Absolutely nothing that would help save the other man’s life.

“Cullen, _please_ ,” he murmured through his tears, returning to the other man’s side, “please, you have to help me. You can make it, love, please be strong just this one more time.”

The endearment slipped unnoticed, but Cullen didn’t move, unhealthy pallor already returning to his cheeks. His pulse was slow, far too slow.

How had he failed to notice how ill the man he loved was getting when he’d noticed everything else? Even potentially imaginary pursuers, he-"

Heart beating nearly out of his ribcage in fear and hope he hurled himself through the tent’s opening. No further snow had fallen and he had a clear view in all directions. He couldn’t see a soul, but there were plenty of hiding spots, a twist in the mountain here, a huge boulder there.

He didn’t care about anything other than keeping Cullen alive at this point. If he brought down enemies on their heads so be it. At least he would have tried.

“Please,” he yelled into the open, “I need help!”

He looked everywhere but nothing moved in the stillness.

“Please,” he tried again, “if you’re there, if you have a shred of compassion, I need a healing potion. I have coin. Please!”

Still nothing stirred and he fell to his knees, blinded by tears.

“Please! He’s _dying_!”

He’d all but given up hope, intent on crawling back inside and cradling Cullen in his arms as he passed away, when something in the corner of his eye stopped him.

 _There._ In the distance but within hearing range, stepping from a nook in the stone into view, two figures made their way towards him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I should apologise for this mammoth of a chapter, but it refused to be stopped sooner. This was one of the first things I wrote for this fic, but it was much, much shorter then and it's been heavily changed to include what is to come. 
> 
> Any insight on who the two approaching figures might be? Cole's words by the fire in the last chapter were about them. It's about to get interesting. ;)


	9. Nine

One of the figures was a human man - a mage, judging from his staff, and Gabriel could only hope that he wasn’t a Venatori. He didn’t _look_ like one: his clothing was so non-descript it had to be on purpose, which was worrying in and of itself, his snow-covered hair - and why was it covered in snow unless he’d deliberately poured it down his head, since it hadn’t been snowing since dawn? - was a haphazard bun pinned off his face and his staff was like a dozen other cheap staves for sale in any city.

As for the second figure, it didn’t bode well. Whoever it was had seen fit to shroud themselves in a cloak that covered everything, leaving only a huge sword strapped to his back. The one thing Gabriel could tell for certain was that it was neither dwarf nor qunari, not with that height; as for the rest - male or female, human or elf - his guess was as good as any.

Not that it mattered, truly. If they carried any potions he could use to keep Cullen alive he’d happily kiss their feet even if they were a genlock. He wasn’t above sleeping with them either, whatever the cloaked figure looked like, if seeing the Inquisitor prostitute himself was their price. His life had been carefree and easy until the Conclave, but the horrors he had seen since meant he wouldn’t put anything past another person.

He’d give them anything - all of their coin, their rations, the clothes on his back if they demanded them - for them to help save Cullen. After everything the former Templar had been through, the idea that he would… That he would die without having ever been happy as an adult… Please, Maker, it couldn’t end like this.

He got up from the snow, stomach hurting with anticipation. Were they friend or foe? He walked towards them briskly - Cullen didn’t have the luxury of time.

“Please. Whoever you are, do you have any healing potions you could spare? I have coin.”

“Healing potions?” The one who was undoubtedly a mage frowned. “I came here because you were screaming that someone was _dying_ and now you want _potions_?”

“ _Please_. If I can keep him alive for less than two days, a healer will come to-”

“Andraste’s saggy tits, a healer is here already, _I’m_ a healer. Now if you could let me get to whoever is dying? Please, and thank you?”

Gabriel’s eyes widened and he pulled the other man by the forearm towards the tent, eliciting a - most likely male - grunt and a violent but ultimately aborted gesture from the hooded figure. A _healer_. Cullen would live.

* * *

“Ugh, Maker’s Morning Breath, what is that _smell_? It smells as if- oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me,” the man muttered indignantly upon laying his eyes on Cullen, “out of all the people I could’ve had to save it had to be the mage-hating bigot? Serah ‘Mages Aren’t People Like You And I’? What’s he dying _of_ , self-combustion from the indignity of having to share a tent with a _mage_? And don’t they teach you refreshing spells at Ostwick? Cast one on the tent, will you? I used to live in- a smelly place, and it didn’t stink this badly.”

As Gabriel was casting the refreshing smell, the tent finally breathable, the diagnostic spell the other mage had been performing as he spoke was complete and his entire countenance changed, became serious and somber.

“You weren’t exaggerating, he _is_ dying. I’m going to need you to remove all magic you have on him. Clever use of Winter’s Grasp, but I’ll commend you on that later. Do you have any lyrium potions? This isn’t going to go away in an hour or two.”

Gabriel blanched as he removed his Winter’s Grasp. The truth of the matter was that he’d deliberately not taken any lyrium potions with him on this mission, as he didn’t want to add to Cullen’s burdens when sharing a tent. When Solas’s potions had been smashed, that was the entirety of their lyrium stock.

As he opened his mouth to reply the other man cut him off.

“Never mind, I can tell by your face that you don’t. I’ll make do. Now I’m going to need absolute peace and quiet to even make a dent in this, so you can either wait outside or stay here but _shut up_.”

He was about to point out that he hadn’t managed to get a word in edgewise yet, but the man was going to try and save Cullen’s life - the least he could do was not antagonise him. He smartly kept his mouth shut and sat down on the floor out of the way to watch the mage work; it was clear he had a history with Cullen: it wouldn’t do to leave him alone with the former Templar, should he choose vengeance over healing.

The healer cast a sleep spell on Cullen’s unconscious form and soon enough magic - powerful, soothing and undoubtedly _healing_ magic, which meant that, whatever he was, he was no blood mage - filled the tent and Gabriel allowed himself to relax just a fraction. Yes, these men had been following them, but clearly if they meant to dispatch him they would have done so and left Cullen to die.

The Commander might still die, he knew; no matter how good a healer the mage might be there was still a chance the infection would… That it would take him regardless. But he couldn’t fixate on that or he’d go mad from worrying. He took comfort in Cullen’s breathing, that was growing stronger and more regular as the healer worked.

Now that he was calmer he allowed himself to further dwell on the identity of his unexpected benefactors. A mage and his bodyguard. By that description alone he would have guessed Tevinter, but the one he could see didn’t look Tevinter at all. His skin was fair, his eyes amber and his hair, now that the ill-conceived snow camouflage had melted, was a reddish blond. Dorian would reprimand him for generalising, but he couldn’t picture this healer as a Tevinter mage.

Facts: he was a healer, knew Cullen and had lived in a smelly place. Not much to go on.

 _‘the mage-hating bigot’_ _‘Serah “Mages Aren’t People Like You And I”’_ He was glad Cullen had told him of his past earlier - he wasn’t sure how he would have reacted, finding out from a stranger.

And where did this mage know him from? Ferelden? His accent certainly seemed to indicate it, but Cullen hadn’t lingered in Ferelden all that long after what had happened in Kinloch Hold, why would this mage know him as a mage-hating bigot? Kirkwall, maybe?

Meanwhile, the aforementioned mage was more than a healer - he was an _artist_. There was a beauty to his magic, to his movements and energy, that had Gabriel in awe. He’d seen many healers in his time in the Circle, even some powerful spirit healers, but this? This was something else. This was as if the healer carried with him a bit of the fade, rather than accessing it from the outside in. Even Gabriel’s anchor was drawn to it, and the hooded man seemed to resonate in sync.

It went on for a long time - longer than anything Gabriel would have expected in one sitting - before the mage’s mana was nearly depleted, but still he pushed on past the point of exhastion. If these were enemies they had a strange way of showing it.

The mage faltered and his hooded companion was up in a flash, holding him up.

“That is quite enough for now, mage.” The man’s voice was a deep, pleasant rumble. “You will not bring yourself to the brink of death trying to heal another. As for you,” the hood turned in his direction and Gabriel felt pinned by an intense stare despite not being able to see the man’s eyes, “do you have anything he can eat?”

Finally, something he could do. Rations, unlike healing potions, he did have. As he was gathering the rations and setting them down he said “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me why you were following us?”

“We were trying to-” the healer started, just as the warrior cut him off with a definitive “no.”

“Fair enough. Shall we eat?”

The mage wolfed down his food as if he hadn’t eaten in days, while his companion settled for nibbling on a piece of jerky, declining the water canteen. When the healer could finally spare his mouth in between bites he asked,

“What happened to him? I couldn’t feel any poison. How did he get injured so severely?”

“You… Haven’t removed the bandages yet…”

“No, he has a widespread infection. It may have started in his back, but treating the wound itself wouldn’t do any good by now. What I’d like to know is why you didn’t get him to a healer as soon as the infection started to spread.”

“I didn’t know. He- I think you should see for yourself when you’re ready to continue.” Gabriel couldn’t force himself to say the words.

The mage looked at him quizzically but then just shrugged and kept eating. Gabriel opted to allow him and his companion a modicum of privacy by sitting further away, next to the bedroll, Cullen’s hand grasped in his. The Commander’s pulse was much stronger than it had been, his colour vastly improved and, while still feverish, he wasn’t burning up. Whoever these men were, he owed them a debt he could never hope to repay.

His other hand caressing Cullen’s curls he mumbled little nothings for the former Templar’s benefit: how he was going to be alright, how they’d be home soon, how better he was going to feel.

“You love him.” The other mage had finished his food and was closer, staring at him from above with a mixture of shock and pity.

“I do.” However foolish it may be to admit it to strangers, Gabriel didn’t want to deny it.

“How can you stand it? Knowing he doesn’t see us as people, knowing he’d have us all tranquil if he could?”

“He’s not like that anymore.”

“Oh?” A sardonic, incredulous souns. For someone who talked so much, this mage had the power to condense his disbelief in a single syllable. “He grew out of it, did he? It was just a phase? That lasted nearly all his adult life so far?”

“He went through a great deal of suffering in his life. Things that would have broken a normal person. Would certainly have broken _me_. And yet he managed to pull through it and still have enough good in him to change. That is a lot more than what most people can say.”

“Oh yes?” The healer’s tone was combative now, and Gabriel felt dismayed that he hadn’t been able to better defend Cullen in the eyes of this man. “Where was that goodness when Kar-” A deep, shuddering breath. “Where was his goodness when other people’s loved ones were being made tranquil? When there were abuses running rampant in a circle under his very nose and he just would not see them?”

Gabriel’s fingers tightened on Cullen’s hand. “He…” How was he going to explain this without breaking Cullen’s trust? Although… This man was a healer, which was probably better for keeping secrets than a priest. “Whatever I tell you about him, will you keep it in confidence as a healer?”

“Of course,” the other man replied.

“His goodness was hiding at the horrors he’d gone through. And there were a lot of those. But there was still enough of it there that he didn’t take part in those abuses.”

“You know what, never mind. Let’s just get the Templar back to health so we can go our separate ways. You wanted me to take a look at his wound, right?” The mage crouched next to Cullen.

If his back didn’t convince the mage that Cullen was a changed man, nothing would.

“Yes, please. I soaked the dressing in elfroot and cast Winter’s Grasp to try and keep the infection away, but it didn’t help much. Should I have left his back in the open air instead?”

“Your logic wasn’t off, although this is so widespread it doesn’t really matter what you do to the site of the infection. If it had been localised then freezing it would definitely have helped.” He was removing the bandages. “In this case, the very best thing would have been to leave the wound to dry out in the open, with a sterilisation spell on the surrounding area, but you’re not a healer, so you did the best you could. Not bad.”

And then the last bandage was off, the healer was looking - _really_ looking, and Gabriel hadn’t dispelled his wisp lights yet so they came down to help - at Cullen’s back, his mouth hanging open in shock.

“These… These are self-inflicted.”

“He carries a great deal of guilt over his past. I was trying to tell you that. He’s a _good_ man.” Gabriel’s cheeks were damp and yet he hadn’t noticed the tears rolling down. “I know you probably hate him, but you’re healing him anyway, so that… I can’t ever repay that. But whatever your personal feelings about him, please know that he _is_ a good man. And he regrets everything that went on before. There are no abuses going on under his nose anymore. His men all know that to do anything untoward to one of our allies, mage or no mage, is to risk the Commander’s wrath.”

The other mage didn’t say anything for a long time, shifting to his knees and cleaning Cullen’s back with an air of intense concentration. Just as Gabriel thought he wouldn’t reply at all he spoke, his voice soft.

“He was one of the good ones, once. Good Templars are in short supply, but he was one of the good ones. Then he changed. In my experience people rarely change for the better. I didn’t think he had it in him to change back.”

“He did. He wants nothing to do with the Templar Order anymore.”

“Nothing. Except for the occasional Smite and the regular lyrium, you mean.”

“I haven’t seen him Smite anyone yet, although I don’t doubt that he will, if the occasion calls for it. But he doesn’t take lyrium anymore.”

The healer’s head shot up, startled eyes no longer on Cullen’s wounds.

“Voluntarily?”

“Yes. He wants no part of his past.”

“Well I’ll be a dwarf. Maybe he _has_ changed. I guess… Stranger things have happened. Does he love you back?”

Gabriel sucked in a breath. That was a rather personal question.

“I don’t know,” he answered, as honestly as he could. “I know he cares, which is more than I knew yesterday when I thought it was hopeless, and I hope we can work our way up to love, but we didn’t get around to talking about that. There was no time.”

The mage finished taking care of Cullen’s back and cast his sterilisation spell on the air around the Commander’s wounds. His control of magic was exquisite.

“I hope he does. I know what it’s like to love someone and have no hope, and I know how it feels when it turns out that the other person feels the same.” He glanced with a soft smile that reached his eyes at his hooded companion. “There’s nothing better.”

“Thank you.” Gabriel spared a glance of his own for the aforementioned hooded companion, who was standing ramrod straight at the entrance, and asked, his voice pitched low so no one else could overhear, “did your diagnostic spell show you every injury he might have?”

“Every injury? This is magic, not divine intervention. I scanned for life-threatening conditions, and even that took its time, as you saw. There’s not enough mana in Thedas to scan for every stubbed toe at once. Why do you ask?”

“This is still in confidence, right?”

“Absolutely. Healer’s vow.”

“Can you look him over elsewhere to see if everything is as it should be? With your healing magic?”

“Elsewhere?” A raised eyebrow.

“There.” Gabriel gestured haplessly to the general area of Cullen’s bottom. For a generally shameless man he felt remarkably ill at ease.

The healer said nothing, simply casting his magic as requested, but then frowned and rounded on Gabriel, his voice still low but harsh.

“You should be ashamed of yourself! This complete disregard is no way to treat your partner, least of all if it’s someone you claim to love. With your reputation I thought you’d know better!”

“Wha- I didn’t do anything!”

“Oh? Is that why you look so guilty?”

Gabriel exhaled, shoulders slumping. He could never tell this to anyone else without breaking Cullen’s confidence, but this healer had already vowed not to tell, and he needed to confess his utter shame to _someone_.

“Precisely because of that. I didn’t do anything. I… I walked in and I thought… I thought he wanted it. And I left.” His tears had started anew. “I told him to lock the door next time, I turned around and I left him there. I did _nothing_.”

The other mage’s tone had lost its harshness.

“Maker, that must have been… You couldn’t tell the difference?”

“Not at the time. I failed him when he needed me the most.” He caressed Cullen’s knuckles, brought them to his lips, kissed every one of them. “I never want to fail him again.”

* * *

It took a few more hours and another round of healing for the healer to declare that it would only take him one more session for Cullen to be out of the woods. He’d still need to see a healer in Skyhold, but his condition wouldn’t be life-threatening in the mean time.

Dinner time was approaching, and he realised that the plan was for the two men to sleep there with them, cramped in the one tent, because the mage wanted to keep an eye on his patient during the night. Then in the morning he’d do that final session and they’d be off with nearly a full day to spare before Skyhold reinforcements got to Gabriel’s position.

The Inquisitor gladly rounded up every single coin he’d been carrying - part of it his own, the rest the Inquisition’s - and added anything of value he was wearing. His rings, his pendant, even his enchanted belt went into his backpack. He hesitated before throwing in his dagger - he was rather fond of it as it had been a present from his sister for his sixteenth birthday, and it wasn’t even that expensive, but it was still worth a decent amount of coin, and Evie would understand when he explained why he’d given it away.

He held the backpack out for the healer.

“Here. This is everything I have of value. If you decide to come to Skyhold I can offer more. Whatever you need of me. I can never repay what you’ve done.”

“I don’t take coin for healing,” the man replied, a finality to his tone, even as his companion protested.

“You know he can afford it, and we could certainly use it. I thought you once said you were fine with charging - what was it? Idiots with more coin than sense? - for your services?”

“This is different, love. It wasn’t the clap or anything so foolish. He was dying. I can’t charge for that.”

“Take it as a gift, then,” Gabriel interrupted, “please. It’s the least I can do. I meant what I said, whatever you need, if it’s within my power I’ll grant it. Anything at all.”

The hooded man reached out to take the pack from him and that’s when everything happened at once.

On the bedroll, Cullen turned with a moan that instantly caught both Gabriel’s and the healer’s attentions. The former Templar’s eyes opened and he looked at Gabriel with a relieved expression.

“Gabriel,” he muttered, smiling. Then he looked at the healer and his eyes widened. “Anders?”

Gabriel didn’t really have time to think before a sleep spell had hit Cullen again and, out of nowhere, the hooded figure was upon him with a snarl, a hand phasing through his chest, the horror of ethereal fingers curling around his heart overpowering him.

Warm piss dripped down his legs even as he pleaded, in what he was certain were the final moments of his life, “Please, I beg you. Let Cullen live.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am completely unrepentant about the cliffhanger, just so you know. Also, prepare to have any preconceived ideas you might have shaken pretty harshly in Ten. 
> 
> Kudos to those of you who guessed the identity of our visitors.


	10. Ten

The mage - Anders - stepped closer, hand outstretched, his focus on his companion.

“Fenris, please, _don’t_!”

“Don’t? Should I let him kill you then?”

“He’s not going to kill me, love, he just said he’s in our debt. And he’s just one man, I’ve put Cullen back to sleep. He’s not going to kill either of us, are you, Inquisitor?”

_Anders_. The insane murderer who had rained death and destruction upon Kirkwall and the kind, astoundingly competent healer who had just been instrumental in saving Cullen’s life were one and the same. And that very mass murderer was the voice of reason advocating for his life.

“I won’t, I swear. But if… If you have to kill me…” his voice was ragged and not all that inclined to cooperate with him. The sheer terror of the hand _inside_ his chest, the feeling that the whole of the Fade was inside him as well, it was too overwhelming. “If you must kill me, please, spare Cullen. He’s asleep and ill, he won’t know to go after you.”

“See Fenris? The nice Inquisitor isn’t going to kill us.”

“As if he’d say anything else with me gripping his heart. He might not kill us now, but if he sends his troops after us how long do you think you will last?”

“I swear on Cullen’s life that I will not hunt you down.” He hated protecting a terrorist, but the man _had_ saved Cullen’s life. He would keep his vow. “And I swear I won’t tell anyone you were here. But I can’t promise to hold back the Inquisition’s armies if they’re called upon to fight you, and I can’t promise there won’t be a new Inquisitor to replace me if I dawdle.”

Dead. He was dead, dead, dead, dead, dead.

“I believe him, Fenris.”

“Have you ever stopped to contemplate how many times you would have been dead between Kirkwall and here if I had left you to your naive foolishness, mage? I will not let anyone take you! If you wish to leave me so badly there is no need to commit suicide in the process.”

Anders gently brought his companion’s - Fenris’s - hood down and placed his hand on the elf’s cheek. The most striking elf Gabriel had ever seen - strong profile, green eyes, shockingly white hair and… Were those glowing tattoos _lyrium_? - was revealed. It was little wonder he had needed to be hidden from view, or he’d be a beacon leading others to Anders’s location.

The healer brushed his lips on the elf’s, disturbingly intimate when Gabriel’s heart was, quite literally, in Fenris’s hands.

“You’re not getting rid of me that easily, love. But he’s not going to kill us, and I still need to do another healing session on Cullen in the morning. Please take your fist out from inside of him before I get jealous.”

Fenris focused his hard green eyes on Gabriel and sneered. “I will remove my hand from your chest now. If I dislike the way you so much as _look_ at him, the next time I remove it from your chest it’ll be solid.”

Such singular devotion to a man who had been responsible for so much death.

Slowly the ethereal fingers withdrew, Gabriel feeling as if he would faint from the sensation, and mercifully solidified only on the _outside_ of his body. He fell to his knees, vomiting in a puddle of his own piss, robbed of the strength to stand. His breath was coming in short gasps and he felt as though he could never get enough air. A panic attack. He was having a panic attack.

A hand held his hair back and cool, calming magic washed over him.

“Breathe. He’s not going to kill you. Just breathe. I’m going to count backwards from thirty. You’ll be fine when I finish and, if you feel like it, you can count with me. Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.”

He managed to find the strength to do it somehow between seven and three. He wasn’t fine by any stretch of the imagination, but he wasn’t about to faint either. And he’d made a mess of himself and the inside of the tent.

It didn’t bear contemplating that the man who had just calmed him down with his voice and his magic was the same man who had blown up the Kirkwall Chantry. And that that same man was risking capture to stay and heal Cullen in the morning despite clearly disliking the Commander… How should he feel?

The two men stepped outside to find a good spot to light a fire for dinner and Gabriel followed suit, the tattered remains of the discarded bandages, filled with elfroot and pus, in his hand. Dusk had fallen and the stillness of the snow was even eerier because of it.

Once he had rubbed the rags in the snow enough times and was satisfied that they were free of bodily fluids he went back inside, using them to clean the floor before repeating the process. Eventually he decided the tent’s floor was as clean as it was going to get, changed his clothing, picked up their food and went outside once more, to sit by the fire.

He sat as further apart from his two guests as he could, his mind going around in circles. He didn’t want this man to be Anders. He had liked this man, felt a kinship to him. A fellow mage in love with a warrior, and one who hadn’t hesitated to help Cullen at that. Who had lectured him on how to take care of a partner. Who had offered encouraging words to Gabriel.

_‘Does he love you back?’_ _‘I hope he does. I know what it’s like to love someone and have no hope, and I know how it feels when it turns out that the other person feels the same. There’s nothing better.’_

He just couldn’t reconcile the two versions of Anders in his mind.

Out of the corner of his eye he studied the two men. Now that their identity was known, Fenris hadn’t bothered with the cloak. He was sitting close to the other man, their hands entwined, in comfortable silence

Anders looked… He looked startlingly _human_. Gabriel didn’t want to like him, Gabriel loathed what he stood for, and yet he couldn’t help it. And he despised himself a little for it.

“Will you please stop looking at me as if I’m archdemon dung? It’s getting on my nerves.”

“Forgive me,” he replied, startled. He attempted to fake a smile.

“Ugh, never mind. That grimace is worse. Worse still coming from another mage.”

“I’m trying, but-”

“What? But _what_?”

“All the people you’ve slaughtered, and you don’t seem to carry a shred of regret.” Cullen had done far, far less and still the guilt consumed him. This man was completely unrepentant. “After seeing everything that it has caused, how can you not regret having blown up the Chantry?”

“Okay, I am going to say this exactly once, and then you can go back to disbelieving me and wishing I keeled over: I did not blow the Chantry up. I can’t very well regret what I didn’t do.”

Delusional. The man was delusional. The evidence had been overwhelming - calculations upon calculations of magical explosions, radius and strength, ingredients and their likely substitutes, had all been found in his clinic. Cullen had once told him the story of leading that raid himself. All of it written in Anders’s handwriting, the same handwriting adorning a manifesto that had been passed around Kirkwall for years. And now he believed he hadn’t done it. He stayed silent, but the insane mage wouldn’t have it.

“Come on, now, out with it. Whatever is eating you up from the inside, spit it out.”

“They found the evidence in your clinic, written by your hand. Do you deny that?”

“I never said I didn’t _plan_ it. I just didn’t go through with it.”

Well, what could he say to that? ‘So sorry, but the death and destruction were quite real?’ This was a madman, he had no hope of reasoning with him.

“My partner did.”

“Your partner.” The spirit he had heard of. The mage believed himself free of guilt because he attributed his loathsome behaviour to his spirit.

“Look, I won’t pretend to know what it’s like to harbour a spirit within yourself,” why was he arguing? Was he deliberately trying to get killed? _Shut up, Gabriel._ “but that doesn’t absolve you of any guilt in what it does.”

“A spi- _Justice_? You think I mean _Justice_? Justice is a part of me, not my partner!”

“So you had a partner in the massacre. You assumed your guilt for the entire world to hear at the time, but now it was your misterious partner who did it?”

“I _supposedly_ assumed my guilt in front of a grand total of three people. Two of them are dead.”

Fresh horror. Insane wasn’t quite descriptive enough.

“So you think once you kill the third one you’ll control the narrative.”

“Control the- _Maker’s Gaping Arsehole_ I didn’t kill the first two! And do you think I’m delusional enough to believe any narrative could be controlled by this point? History will forever cast me as the villain of this story. My friends think I did it. Fenris…” His voice broke in his agitation and he cradled the elf’s hand to his chest. “Fenris is the one person who’s always believed me. I’ve lost everyone else.”

“Mage, don’t waste your breath.” The elf’s voice was tender and concerned. “It’s clear he’s not going to believe us.”

There was a definiteness to Fenris’s words that terrified Gabriel. Would he kill him if he thought he couldn’t be swayed? He had to stall, had to keep the madman talking.

“No, please, I _want_ to understand. What happened then? The real tale?”

"The real tale? The real tale was that I wanted the Chantry to burn and I wanted the whole of Kirkwall to see. I found a kindred spirit. A partner, a friend, I thought. Someone who had always supported me. He fed the worst in me, my need for vengeance, my anger. My rage. Little by little I lost sight of everything else. And, for two years, we plotted it together.

“Then Fenris…. I hadn’t thought it could be possible. I thought he hated me at the time. But he didn’t. You didn’t, didn’t you love?”

“No, mage. I never did.” Fenris only had eyes for his lover, almost as if he’d forgotten Gabriel was there at all. He used the word _mage_ as if it were an endearment.

"He filled every dark corner of my soul with light. I still wanted to destroy the Chantry, but I needed it to be empty - I wanted to destroy a symbol, not kill innocent people. So many people…

“My partner said it was alright. I adapted the calculations, devised a plan to evacuate the Chantry in advance. But however I ran the calculations, no matter how much I changed them, there were always lives lost in the rubble. Always innocents caught in the fire or victims of the debris. There were so many dead when it finally happened…” The man’s eyes looked haunted.

"I couldn’t see a way to evacuate half of Kirkwall, of course. I tried different recipes, different combinations, different ingredients. But there was never a perfect amount. Anything powerful enough to destroy the Chantry would always take lives. And anything less, a smaller explosion, it would be worse than nothing at all. They’d have just cracked down harder on the mages.

"Fenris kept telling me that there was a better way. That I would never convince him or anyone else that mages deserved to be free with an act of violence. And one day I believed him. Finally one night I told my partner we were scraping the entire thing. He said he understood. That I was right. The Chantry exploded the next morning.

“In retrospect I think he would have preferred to use Merrill as a scapegoat. We were actually friends once, he and I, and she was a blood mage, like the man who murdered his mother. She’d have fit in better with his plans. But she was an elf. If he’d blamed her no one would have seen a blood mage killing the Grand Cleric, they’d have seen an elf, and that wasn’t what he needed.”

Wow. It was such a lovely fantasy… It had everything. Angst, hurt, love, redemption, betrayal… Gabriel found himself _wanting_ to believe. But all of Anders’s associates had been well-known, there was no way he had had a partner with whom to plot for his final years in Kirkwall that no one had heard of.

“I can tell you don’t believe me. That’s alright. I didn’t expect you would. Just… When he stabs you in the back too, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“He?”

“Hawke, of course. Who did you think I was talking about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us shatter Gabriel's entire world, why not? Next chapter: The True Tale Of The Champion (An Abridged Version). 
> 
> As always, your reviews make my day.


	11. Eleven

Gabriel’s nostrils flared with his sharp intake of breath. Suddenly he believed every single word the other man had said. This man, this mage, this _healer_ … Gabriel’s instincts had been right. It was alright to feel a kinship, to like him. He was not the monster Hawke had made the world believe he was. He shifted closer to the couple to better hear the rest of the tale.

“ _Hawke_. Hawke was responsible for the Chantry. I believe you. Unreservedly.”

Anders’s head snapped to meet his eyes at that, shock clearly evident.

“You believe me? Just like that? You’ll take the word of a stranger over the word of your ally, and ‘ _unreservedly_ ’ at that? What aren’t you telling me?”

Gabriel didn’t want to say it in front of Fenris. Hand-inside-of-his-chest aside, he had nothing against the warrior, but he wasn’t Cullen’s healer, and it didn’t feel right that Gabriel would share something so private without Cullen’s explicit permission. He opted to not be direct.

“There is very little I would put past Hawke after what I’ve learned recently. What I told you in confidence, that… That was Hawke.”

Anders looked as if Gabriel had slapped him, and the Inquisitor couldn’t tell why this would make the healer look like that after the betrayal he had suffered.

“Please, tell me everything. The other two people who were there when you supposedly admitted your guilt?”

“Meredith and Orsino. I’m not saying they weren’t crazy, but… It’s awfully convenient that he went around telling people I went up to them and said ‘I destroyed the Chantry, there can be no peace, evil laughter, mwahaha’ and then they both end up dead and Hawke’s the Viscount.”

“Varric’s _Tale Of The Champion_ made me think there were more of you there that day.”

"There weren’t. Varric’s main source for all the bits that he himself wasn’t there for was Hawke. Hawke loved doing stuff with us, always three of us at a time plus him, never more, never less; yet some missions he chose to do alone. Orsino did protect the blood mage who killed Hawke’s mother; Hawke was never going to let that slide.

“Everyone else who came into that fight - Sebastian, Aveline, Merrill - only got there after it was well underway, and they had to wait for Aveline. Not Hawke’s usual style at all.”

“The city was falling apart and they had to wait for the Captain of the Guard?”

“It was supposed to be me,” Fenris interrupted, ’I was the warrior of choice that day, and Aveline would have been better suited to keep the city from imploding from a different angle. And as I was closest, I was the first one to get to Hawke on the streets that day.

"He told me that Anders had caused all that destruction. At first I believed him to be misled - I knew Anders had been planning something nefarious that he had put an end to the night before, and I knew that there was someone else involved, but I didn’t think it would be Hawke. Hawke didn’t know the extent of my knowledge.

"And I believed that Anders’s partner had framed him, but I did not tell Hawke this - I simply told him I would get the mage from his clinic so he could explain himself. It would be easier than trying to reason with Hawke in the middle of the chaos, I thought.

"That was when Hawke said that Anders had already admitted it to him, the Knight Commander and the First Enchanter, earlier that morning. That if I was going to the clinic it would be better to finish Anders off, before his twisted views made Magisters out of every mage. He preyed perfectly on my sickness, my hatred.

"But he didn’t know, couldn’t know, that I had slept in the clinic that night. That the only reason Anders wasn’t by my side was that I had left to purchase breakfast when the explosion hit.

"That was when all the mosaic pieces suddenly fit and I _knew_ : Hawke had been Anders’s partner, and Anders had kept his identity a secret from me in the same way he had kept our relationship a secret from everyone.

“I told Hawke I would do it, that I would kill Anders. I went to the clinic, grabbed him and whatever coin we could find for our escape and we ran. We have not stopped running since, but I’m no stranger to running.”

Gabriel was floored. Without meaning to, words slipped from his lips, his soft voice belying the harshness of his accusation.

“A psychopath. Hawke’s always been a monster.”

“ _No_ ,” Anders cut across him, surprisingly firm and outraged for someone who had been a victim of such sordid betrayal, “Hawke was a good man once.”

“A good man?” Gabriel asked, disbelief colouring his tone, “How can you say that with a straight face? A good man wouldn’t betray his friend like that! A good man wouldn’t have caused all that death! A good man wouldn’t’ve… A good man wouldn’t…” _A good man wouldn’t rape Cullen and lead him to self harm, a good man wouldn’t try to trick me into assigning Cullen to his city to do Maker only knows what._ The words caught in his throat even as Anders shook his head.

“You may be his ally, but you don’t know him. You don’t know who he is, what he went through.”

“We have all gone trough much, mage,” Fenris gently rebuffed, “and that hasn’t caused us to turn on each other.”

Anders faced his lover, eyes still haunted, “I know, but… He doesn’t know him. He has no right to start saying things like that when he wasn’t there.” He turned to Gabriel again.

"There was always a little darkness in Hawke, I admit, but he wasn’t like that when we met. He had lost his father three years before; had lost his sister right in front of him that same year. Carver - his brother - hated him a little for it, she was Carver’s twin, and he blamed Hawke for living when she had died.

"Even so he had this fighting spirit, this drive to move mountains. They came to Kirkwall, him, Carver and their mother. And for that first year he did whatever he had to do to keep them fed and with a roof over their heads.

"But they had no coin of their own that would afford them a place to stay. Hawke and Carver were both indentured to a mercenary group, and mostly everything they made that first year was to pay off that debt.

"He was young then, 25 when they hit Kirkwall, Carver only 18, but they were both strong. They’d have made it out on the streets of Darktown if they had to, even if they had had to sleep there for a while. But being homeless? That would have killed their mother, and Hawke always did everything for his family.

“His uncle - Gamlen - knew that. And he took advantage of that. He let them stay with him, but the things he demanded of Hawke…” He swallowed. “No uncle should ever demand that from a nephew. And Hawke, he just… He took it, he just took it all in stride, just as long as Carver didn’t have to, and that Carver and his mother never knew. He let Gamlen do whatever he wanted.”

Even by the fire light Gabriel could see how Anders had turned deeply sad, his countenance heavy.

“I don’t think he ever meant for anyone to know, but I walked in on them once. I was on the verge of killing Gamlen but he got between his uncle and me, protected the bastard. Afraid that with Gamlen dead they’d still be out on the street. He made me swear never to tell Carver or Leandra - I’d have promised never to tell _anyone_ , had he asked, but by then his faith in people wasn’t all that great; he said it was better to have me make a promise I could keep than to ask for something bigger and have it broken. I’d never be telling you this otherwise, but I hope it helps you _see_ him. In return I started to heal him after… _After_.”

The healer spared him a look rife with meaning, as if to say ‘ _do you see? Hawke was a victim before he was an abuser. I had hoped he wouldn’t turn into one._ ’ Gabriel swallowed.

"Then he started seeing someone, an apostate who turned out to be a blood mage - it wasn’t serious, but it was on its way there - and it turned out she was manipulating him and tried to have her accomplice - a Blooming Rose prostitute - make him kill himself. He had to kill the both of them instead.

“And then, with that indomitable strength of his he saved up every coin he could scrape to fund that Deep Roads expedition and Bartrand just left us there to die. And that…” Tears filled the healer’s eyes now, “That still would have been fine with him if it hadn’t been that fucking amulet.”

Gabriel hadn’t dared interrupt so far, but Anders seemed to be out of words for a little while after that, so he risked asking, “Amulet?”

"A sliver of Bartrand’s Maker-forsaken red lyrium idol. He found it on the floor of that Thaig and brought it home with him, had it fashioned into an amulet ‘to remind himself to always be on the lookout for betrayal,’ he said.

"We didn’t think much of it at the time, but in hindsight that has to be what changed him, what buried the good and brought out the worst in him. He often wore the accursed thing around his neck. Varric begged him to get rid of it after we saw what the idol had done to his brother, and he said he had and we never saw the thing again, but who knows?

"Then he got home and he was so excited to tell Carver and his mother that they could afford to get out of Gamlen’s house, and Carver wasn’t there. He’d gone off to join the Templars, of all things, and Hawke - who was still proud to be a mage at the time -, well, he just saw it as another betrayal. They had words, it wasn’t pretty.

"Deep down I think Carver thought he might be protecting his brother if he joined, but he’d sooner eat his armour than admit it, and Hawke never saw it that way. That moment changed him too.

"That’s when he let his inner darkness start to show, I think. He gave Isabela to the Arishok just like that, even though she didn’t have to have come back with that blighted tome. He started to care _less_ , for everything except his mother. And then she died. His one family member who supported him who he still had, dead. At the hands of yet another blood mage. If that hadn’t been enough he later found out his father had been a blood mage as well.

"I was consumed by my own thoughts of vengeance at the time, but then Fenris changed all that. Hawke… He never let anyone close enough for him to love them after Tarohne. Afraid they’d double cross him, or afraid they’d be taken from him, probably both. And I didn’t realise it at the time, but that’s when he started hating mages. Himself most of all, I think. Maybe if his sister had lived it would have been different, I don’t know. There were other incidents - mages whom he had helped ended up kidnapping his brother and trying to kill _him_ , for starters - which went as well as you might expect for them.

"You know the rest. We plotted the destruction of the Chantry together, but our goals couldn’t have been any more different. I wanted to call attention to the plight of mages, I thought he shared my views… But by then he only ever pretended to care for mages when I was around because it suited him.

"And his power kept rising, the demands of the city on him kept rising, everyone wanted a piece of him, and he was good at hiding what was really going on inside. Everything he ever tried to do turned bad. Kirkwall had that effect. He sided with the Templars and ended up its Viscount. And the kicker? He never wanted power, not at all. He just wanted to take care of his family, to fill the void his father had left.

“And now Carver’s the only family he’s got left, but I don’t even know if they’re on speaking terms.”

“Carver Hawke is dead,” Gabriel interrupted with a heavy heart, “he turned into a red Templar and Hawke had to kill him.”

“Maker, he’s truly lost everything then,” Anders whispered and then, for the longest of times, no one spoke, all three men lost in thought by the fire.

Gabriel thought it was a terribly tragic tale - he could no longer believe Hawke had _always_ been a monster. That 25 year-old boy who had gone through the Void to keep his family safe… That couldn’t have been a monster. And the red lyrium amulet, well. If there was someone who didn’t need the evils of red lyrium explained to him, it was Gabriel.

He understood why Anders had shared the tale with him, why Anders, even after the horrible betrayal he had suffered, still seem to care for the Champion. He might have even hoped there was some form of redemption for the other man in the cards, if it hadn’t been for what he’d done to Cullen. Not just that fateful night in the Commander’s tower, but all the manipulation that ensued in order to get the former Templar utterly isolated and at his mercy in a city that had ruined him.

No, there would be no redemption for Hawke. It might not even have been possible should Gabriel have wanted to let him live - he had no family left now, other than, irony of ironies, the uncle who had abused him, and according to Anders his family had been everything to him.

He hadn’t _known_ Hawke then; there was no lingering fondness for a man who was no more. But he didn’t want to make Hawke suffer anymore either, despite what Cullen had suffered because of him. There was room in his heart for that tiniest bit of mercy for the other man: the desire to grant him a quick death. A quick death would have to be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only have one thing to say: if, after reading this chapter, you can still see Hawke as nothing more than a monster, then I have utterly failed as a writer. My heart aches for what he could have been.


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I mentioned in my opening author notes, I've grown terrible at replying to comments. That doesn't mean I don't love them - I have been fortunate enough that you have left me lovely comments, often analysing what drives a character or speculating on what could come next, and I have reread each and every comment far more than once. It's a good thing I'm no good at replying or I'd probably have given away the plot already. 
> 
> That being said, I received a comment on the last chapter that I feel the need to address here; it simply said "it sounds like you hate canon anders lmao". There are two things wrong with this assumption:
> 
> 1) That particular chapter was from Gabriel's POV, wich doesn't always - and shouldn't always - reflect my own. Gabriel is a fully formed character; he has his likes, his dislikes, his beliefs and his world view. His experiences have shaped who he is just as mine have shaped who I am. It would be wrong to assume that he speaks for me. 
> 
> Here not only does Gabriel not know Anders except from what he's heard, up until the point where he meets him, as he is also very much not in favour of exploding anythings (Chantries, Conclaves, you name it).
> 
> 2) I adore canon Anders. He's kind, generous, charming, witty, has a heart the size of the world and is intelligent to boot. This does not mean I condone blowing up a building filled with innocent people (along with a few guilty ones) and having even more innocent people die or be maimed by the falling debris.
> 
> There's no doubt in my mind that it _was_ a terrorist act. People who had nothing to do with it - people who weren't even Chantry goers - were caught in the crossfire. That's the very definition of terrorism in my book. Had he gone after the Templar Barracks (even though there are plenty of good Templars, one can argue that they're always soldiers, not civilians) or had he decided to murder Elthina without hurting others I might understand his despair. The Chantry explosion seems to be just a senseless loss of life.
> 
> I reserve the right to adore Anders despite what he did because I can reason he wasn't himself - for me, it was Vengeance, just as it was Vengeance who had him murder or nearly murder Ella - and if you friendmance him you'll see that Hawke can almost convince him not to go through with the bombing until Vengeance takes over and makes him forget the entire conversation. It's one of the most heartbreaking moments of DA2 for me.

When he could no longer bear the atmosphere around the fire he rose and went inside the tent. The acrid smell of vomit still lingered - perhaps he hadn’t managed to clean it as well as he should have with the rags - and he cast another refreshing spell, grateful that his mana was no longer needed for anything more. Then he sat besides Cullen, one hand on his mercifully fever-free forehead, and let the former Templar’s steady breathing comfort him.

He _missed_ Cullen. It was odd to think it when the other man had been asleep not even a day, especially considering Gabriel was used to spending weeks without seeing him but, after what they’d shared, he missed everything about him acutely. His caring eyes, his kind smile, the way the scar on his lip would stretch _just so_ when something surprised a laugh out of him…

He would have to speak with Cullen properly once they were back in Skyhold, would have to be absolutely certain that the other man wanted to pursue something with him before embarking on any sort of relationship. He wouldn’t abuse his trust, couldn’t start anything with only feverish death-door declarations but he hoped… Oh, how he _hoped_ …

What his two visitors had, he wanted that so badly for Cullen and himself it hurt. They had nothing to call their own, were on the run, had been betrayed by one of their closest friends in a terrible way and yet - and yet they were _happy_. It was plain to see: they were happy because they had each other, and all other burdens were lighter for it.

He hoped he could be that for Cullen one day, because Cullen? He already was all that for Gabriel.

Gabriel wished he could bring the other two men to Skyhold, to offer them food and shelter, a home, a place to settle down. They definitely deserved it, especially after having been instrumental in saving Cullen’s life.

But Anders had been right when he said history would always cast him as the villain of that tale. It was too late to convince anyone - any evidence there might have been of Hawke’s involvement long since destroyed - and, Inquisitor or not, Gabriel could not guarantee the healer’s safety in Skyhold. Nor could he guarantee the safety of the rest of Skyhold if they threatened Anders with Fenris around, he thought ruefully.

Then there was Starkhaven and its prince, who would certainly throw a fit and try to attack the fortress - why these people didn’t realise that _giant demon-spewing holes in the sky_ took precedence over everything else, he’d never understand - and he couldn’t afford to divert men to such trivial matters with Corypheus on the loose.

And he hadn’t even begun to formulate a plan as to how to deal with Hawke but, whatever it ended up being, he knew he couldn’t act before dealing with the Wardens. He’d have to be very careful not to show his hand in the meantime. Ugh. He looked at the Anchor. He could no longer even _think_ that expression without cringing.

All of that plotting and posturing, it was already giving him a headache. And if Cullen was truly interested in him, Gabriel, beyond those feverish confessions, they’d have to be extremely careful. No one could know, not before Hawke was dealt with. Rumour would undoubtedly reach the Champion’s ears that the Commander and the Inquisitor were together, and that would tip the Viscount off, make him even more unpredictable.

Would Cullen agree to starting a relationship in the shadows? Would he rather postpone it? Would he want one at all? He hated when his thoughts turned circular, and a different idea was already forming in his mind. With a kiss on Cullen’s forehead - fighting the urge to cup his cheeks and kiss him on the lips, in case that was unwanted - he got up, grabbed his backpack and rejoined the other men by the fire.

* * *

“Why were you following us,” he asked, by way of greeting, “can you tell me now that I know who you are?”

“Sure. We knew you had allied with Hawke and Sebastian, and wanted to see what to expect from you. What kind of man you were. To be honest we wanted to see if, after the whole ancient Darkspawn thing was resolved, you’d be such a shame to kill if you came after us.”

Well, that was honest.

“And now that you’ve met me?”

“Well, you’ve already said you’re not coming after us, so if you keep to your word the point is moot but, for whatever it’s worth, I’d hate to have to kill any man who’s foolishly in love enough to go and yell for his pursuers to hear that his fighting companion is disabled for the time being and he’s rife with coin.”

His rueful smile matched Anders’s, and even Fenris quirked the corner of his lips slightly upwards.

“You did save him, so it wasn’t quite that foolish?”

“Point. I’m glad we won’t have to murder eachother, by the way. Well, not that we could _actually_ murder each other unless the first one murdered came back as an angry ghost and-”

“Actually I was thinking about that-”

“Murdering eachother? Or angry ghosts? Why does no one ever think about kittens?”

“Well not _that_ specifically,” Gabriel said, laughing, “just… Where will you go now?”

“My apologies,” Fenris interrupted, the voice of reason, “but half a day of acquaintance does not earn you that information.”

“Fair enough. But you _have_ a plan? You’re not just playing it by ear?”

Fenris had the grace to look uncomfortable.

“And I can see that you are. I, on the other hand, came up with a backup plan in case everything turns south for you. Although it involves sandwiching you both between Kirkwall and Starkhaven.”

“Impeccable plan,” Fenris deadpanned, “I’m torn between following it or slitting our wrists right away to save time.”

“I know it’s a huge risk. And if you have better options you should take them.” He opened the backpack and pulled out his dagger. “But if you find yourself against the wall and you can make it to Ostwick, go to to the estate of Bann Gawain Trevelyan - that’s my father - and when you get there ask to speak to Lady Evelyn - my sister. Tell the guard to tell her Ser Nugbottom sent you, and show them this dagger.”

“Ser Nugbottom,” Fenris repeated drily while Anders snickered.

"It’s what she called me when we played Rogues and Knights as children. She did grow up to be a rogue, but this Knight turned out to be a mage. She gave me that dagger for my 16th birthday - she’ll know you’re to be trusted. I’m sure that now that I’m Inquisitor my parents have people knocking on their door claiming to know me every other day, but the nickname and the dagger will be enough to get you in the door.

“I’ll write a letter for her, which you’ll take, that’ll say you’re trustworthy. No names, only our childhood nicknames, so I won’t endanger my family if you’re caught before getting there. If you make it to the estate, though, you’ll be safe. She’ll make sure of that. My father is a close friend of the Teyrn and he has connections throughout the Chantry. He’ll be in a privileged position to mislead them.”

Anders’s expression closed, surprising Gabriel.

“Maker, all that privilege and influence, and you see nothing wrong with it. It’s just a trifling thing to you, other people’s suffering.”

“What? I realise we’re wealthy and well connected, obviously, but I assure you my family is well loved by the people. My parents aren’t ones to feast on ram while their people starve.”

“You want accolades for that?”

“I’m fairly sure I don’t know where all this hostility is coming from when I’m trying to _help_ you.”

Anders snatched the dagger from him in a huff and brandished it angrily in front of him.

“Was this worth the lives of other mages, then?”

Deep down in the pit of his stomach Gabriel began to fear Anders was quite mad after all. Fenris was watching the exchange impassively.

“This was a birthday present. My sister purchased it for me from a merchant. It’s worth a decent amount, but it isn’t made with the bones and skin of mages. I assure you that no mages were harmed in its making or its procuring.”

“It’s as if you’re so blind you don’t even realise what it stands for.”

“It doesn’t stand for _anything_ other than the ability to chop a few herbs! It’s a dagger, a bloody _dagger_!”

“Interesting choice of words.”

“ _What_?”

“Tell me, did your sister give this to you and then you went ‘thank you sister, lovely dagger, please keep it safe for me’? Is that what you said? Did you go and fetch it after the Circles rebelled?”

“Of course not, it was over twenty years ago that she gave it to me, why would I leave my gift at home to collect rust for twenty years?”

“Do you think mages in other Circles are allowed to keep _daggers_? Sharp, finely-honed pointy _daggers_? Without being accused of blood magic, or of plotting a Templar’s murder? We’d be lucky to keep a _spoon_! Do you think other mages get to visit home whenever they want to? That they even have a home to visit? That they get to sleep safe and sound without fear their door is going to open and a Templar might have decided he wants in on the action?”

“Ostwick was very sedate but that’s not my-”

“ _Sedate_?” Anders couldn’t keep his voice from rising. “Is that what you called it? _Sedate_? Do you want to know what we called it? Utopia. And your Utopia was everyone else’s Void.”

“I don’t understand-”

"No, you don’t! You’re too blighted naive to understand, and you’re nearly my age! Ostwick was what it was because of _you_! Your beloved parents moved mountains, used every ounce of influence they had to make sure their darling Gabriel had a nice playground to grow up in. Every mage who had ever thought of escaping, every Templar who had even the barest _potential_ to go bad, they were all transferred out. Every decent Templar they could find was moved to Ostwick so _you_ ’d grow up safe and happy and loved.

"Do you know what happens when you put the Templars who _might_ go bad together with the worst ones? _They go bad_. That’s just how it is. And every mage with a rebellious streak got thrown in with the blood mages because your life just had to be perfect.

“I heard when the Circles rebelled, when every mage was fighting every Templar, your Templars actually escorted each and every one of you to safety. Is that a myth?”

“I– no. It’s true. They got me home, got the other mages to safety as well. None of us ever saw the point in fighting each other – we were friends.”

" _Friends_. If your parents had used their influence to reform Circles everywhere they might not have created Utopia, but life would certainly have been better for everyone else. But all they cared about was _you_. Your life was every mage’s _dream_ , but it’s made you blind. You’ve somehow convinced yourself that Utopia was the norm and everywhere else the Circles were mostly like it with a few rotten apples, but they weren’t. They _weren’t_.

“You’ve thought of reforming them, haven’t you? You thought every Circle could be like Utopia with a little bit of encouragement? They can’t. If you take out all the bad you have to put it somewhere else. The Circle is nothing but a prison–”

“–which does not mean you can do away with it entirely, mage, unless you want abominations to run rampant. You know this. Mages need training and supervision.”

Anders seemed to deflate at his lover’s interruption, lost to his anguish; Gabriel hadn’t even begun assimilating that he was the reason that other Circles were worst.

“We’ve been through this Fenris. Taking children from their parents–”

“–is not the appropriate solution. You have managed to make me agree to that much. I would not see you imprisoned for being who you are. But would you see the mages loose as they are now, with no guidance, falling prey to demons at every turn?”

The healer sighed. “No, you’re right. This is hardly better.”

“I didn’t know,” Gabriel said, more to himself, “that my parents had pulled that many strings with that many consequences.”

"I know. For the longest time I thought you were this self-important noble arsehole who didn’t care - this was well before you were Inquisitor, by the way. We all knew about you. Every time a transfer from Ostwick came we shuddered. But today I realised you didn’t even know.

“You almost got _him_ , did you know?” Anders gestured to the inside of the tent with his head and Gabriel’s heart skipped a beat.

“Cullen?”

“Yes. Like I said, he was one of the good ones, once. I used to hang around in niches to hear what Templars were talking about - made planning my escapes easier if I knew what they were up to - and I caught that conversation. He was going to spend a couple of years in Kinloch Hold then be transferred to Utopia. But then Uldred happened and he got Kirkwall instead.”

 _Maker_. He was the reason why Cullen… It was his fault that… He… How many people had had their lives ruined simply because he existed? How much blood was on his hands?

He swallowed, trying to swallow with it his shock, his shame. There was an ancient Darkspawn Magister to fight, a world to save; now was not the time. He’d dwell on it later.

Once the rifts were gone, Corypheus defeated, once Hawke was dead, _then_ he could begin to assimilate this. And Anders was right: he couldn’t just recreate the Circles and hope every one of them would be like Ostwick. Fenris was right as well: Templars were needed, yes, to protect people - mages and non mages alike -, to keep the world safe, but not like this. Not with lyrium, breaking them apart until there was nothing, and not if they were angry, vengeful people to begin with.

They needed Not-Quite-Circles where mages could go for training or where they could live, if their families were prejudiced. A lyrium-free Not-Quite-Templar Order filled with men and women of noble heart. Something _good_ to leave behind, to make up for all the bad he had unwittingly caused. He’d make it happen. Somehow. And the air around the fire seemed weightier once more.

“Crystal Grace,” Anders said, unexpectedly.

“Excuse me?”

"When the lyrium withdrawal gets too much. Two parts powered Crystal Grace, two parts water and a pinch of Royal Elfroot. Let it simmer until it turns blue, then enchant it to glow when you bottle it. Don’t tell him what’s in it. Tell him he can have half a vial and no more, and only for emergencies or it’ll be harmful for his health. A full vial in exceptional circumstances.

“It won’t _actually_ help much - it’s a placebo more than anything else - and it wouldn’t hurt him if he drank two full cauldrons, but that’s not the point. More than half of the withdrawal effects are psychological, and both Crystal Grace and Royal Elfroot have healing properties. Things like headaches or muscle aches should feel better, the blue will remind him of lyrium, and if he believes he’s drinking something that’ll counteract the effects then it’ll help. He can’t have much of it, or often, simply because he’d realise what it was and the ruse would be up. I’m sorry, but that’s the best I have.”

“Thank you. I- truly. _Thank you_.”

“Always happy to help a recovering bigot,” the other man replied with a flippant half-grin, effectively ending the conversation. Gabriel ought to learn that trick for War Room meetings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will finally - finally! - wrap up this Maker-forsaken mission next chapter. I'm starting to miss Cullen as much as Gabriel is.


	13. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: most of this chapter is NSFW.

No one slept that night - no one except for Cullen, that was. Gabriel was wide awake, rather uselessly laying next to Cullen just watching over his sleep; Fenris had insisted on keeping watch; and Anders had alternated between checking up on Cullen and keeping Fenris company, driving Gabriel crazy with how many times he was opening and closing the tent’s flap.

Finally he’d had enough and left the tent himself as the sun was rising, while Anders was doing the final healing session on Cullen, and sat beside Fenris just outside. For a few minutes neither man spoke, but Gabriel was too stressed to be silent.

“Thank you. You know. For not killing me?”

The warrior surprised him with a half-smile and turned green eyes to his.

“You are welcome. You have my thanks as well.”

“Me? Whatever for?”

“For believing him. It has been… Difficult for him. He is used to running, but not to everyone hating him, not like this. It has meant more than you know, that someone else believes him. And - despite his protests - I would be grateful for both your coin and your letter.”

“I’ll write it right away and slip it in the backpack next to the dagger.”

Time flew as he did just that, then listened to Anders’s recommendations - apparently he shouldn’t be alarmed if Cullen slept for the better part of the week, as his body recovered from its ordeal, and Gabriel should keep him hydrated and keep an eye on him so he could call the healers if anything didn’t seem right - and said his goodbyes to the duo. Afterwards it slowed to a crawl when it was just him and the still sleeping Cullen, just waiting for the day to be over so reinforcements from Skyhold could arrive.

He’d ask Fiona to look Cullen over, to be on the safe side, but he had little doubt that Anders had done a magnificent job. Just how he was going to explain that Cullen had been healed by a Spirit Healer who just happened to be passing through, he didn’t yet know, but he’d think of something. That should be fun.

* * *

Cullen had few memories of the journey back to Skyhold after his conversation with Gabriel. He didn’t know how the Inquisitor had pulled it off but, true to his word, he had gotten him healed and back.

He remembered fingers and magic, pain and its absence, fire and ice vanishing to give way to a soothing breeze. Oddly enough he had had a face appear who had never before visited his nightmares; why his mind would choose this point in time to evoke the image of Anders, he didn’t know.

He remembered having moments of wakefulness, remembered realising he was in Gabriel’s quarters, remembered seeing Fiona there, remembered hearing her say that it was rest and water, not magic, that he needed now.

Then he remembered feeling more alert for all of five minutes, and making a motion to get up only to have Gabriel there.

“Cullen? Are you alright to rest here, where I can keep an eye on you? If you really want to go back to your tower I can take you…”

“’s’alright,” he had mumbled, turning in the bed, exhausted by the mere intent to get up, “stay with me?”

Gabriel had taken off his boots and shirt and climbed into the bed, pulling soft sheets and warm blankets over them both, snuggling against him.

He could almost swear, in his addled state of mind, that he had heard the Inquisitor whisper _always_.

* * *

The sky was dark when he next awoke.

Waking up without pain was a novel sensation. There were always the varying degrees of the side effects of his lyrium withdrawal, of course, but the physical aspect of those had been so dwarfed by his self-inflicted - and Hawke-inflicted - maladies that it barely registered. Even… _there_ there was no discomfort, none at all. He hadn’t known he could ever regain full normality there. Fiona had done an impressive job and he was filled with gratitude.

There was something freeing for a moment, something exhilarating in the absence of pain and he reveled in it. His throat was parched, but there was a jar of water on the table. Strangely, there was an empty cot near the bed.

There was also something else.

Gabriel, shirtless in a pair of trousers, pressing warmly against his side, hand comfortingly resting on Cullen’s stomach. Gabriel, who had given him everything.

Gently and trying not to wake him he leaned over to pour himself a glass of water, then another.

Then his bladder started insistently reminding him of its existence and he had to get up and use the chamber pot. One of the advantages of having been a Templar was that one’s bladder was never shy.

Slinking back into bed he thought he’d been rather stealthy until he noticed Gabriel watching him with sleepy eyes, a smile on his face.

“How are you feeling?”

He’d never had the privilege of hearing Gabriel’s voice like that, gravelly, heavy with sleep. He loved it.

“Well. Better than well.” His stomach protested and he laughed. “A bit famished, it would seem, but very well.”

He should get up and stop imposing, but the other man didn’t seem put upon by his presence, and he wanted to enjoy this moment.

“Famished or not, you’re not getting more than broth for now. You’ve been asleep for more than three days.”

“Three days?”

“The infection had done a number on you, you needed the rest. I’ve been giving you water but you weren’t really awake, any of the times. I’ve actually only just come to bed tonight. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I am, thank you.”

The conversation stalled and the feelings of elation started to abate. He’d been asleep in Gabriel’s bed for over three days, had poured his heart out to the other man before that, in that tent, and now he felt awkward and out of place. He didn’t know how to get back to their easy relationship.

He fidgeted.

Gabriel’s smile faltered with his own and he mourned the loss of the Inquisitor’s warm fingers on his stomach as the other man sat up and distanced himself slightly.

“Cullen, I… Maybe we should talk. Clear a few things up.”

His stomach plummeted but he nodded.

“Out there in the snow we said things… You were feverish and vulnerable and in pain and I didn’t… I don’t… I thought you were going to die, and I…” He exhaled. “Maker, this is hard.”

In those few short, truncated sentences, Cullen’s world crashed and burned. Gabriel had lied.

His fever, his infection, had been severe, he knew. He had felt death approaching rapidly, coming to take him, had begged the Maker to allow him just a little bit more time with Gabriel. Even with Gabriel’s salves and bandages, his body would have given out, but he had held on with all of his might, had clung to life because he wanted to be with the other man.

When Cullen had confessed his biggest shame - Kinloch Hold and The Gallows - if Gabriel had rejected him, the former Templar might not have fought so hard to survive. Wouldn’t have, not at all.

And Gabriel was a good man. He wouldn’t want Cullen’s death on his conscience, even if the bond they had shared had been severed by Cullen’s past actions.

He had lied to give the Commander something to hold on to, a fighting chance, then had gone so far as to kiss him after Cullen had initiated that first kiss. That first kiss that Gabriel hadn’t even managed to bring himself to respond to.

 _Maker_ , how he must have felt when Cullen had attempted to undress.

And he had brought him here up to his quarters, to recover in private rather than in the infirmary, and then when he’d suggested taking Cullen back to his tower Cullen had ignored his wishes and asked him to stay with him. Had taken care of him for three days because of it.

Gabriel had gone above and beyond, must have stomped down on everything he was feeling in order to put on such a convincing act for Cullen.

And now it was done, and it was time to tell Cullen their friendship was no more.

He got up abruptly. He needed to leave.

He needed to acknowledge the sacrifice Gabriel had made to keep him alive and leave. If only he could find his boots first, he’d-

“… Cullen?”

He didn’t turn, couldn’t look at the man he loved.

“Inquisitor. I understand. You told me what I needed to hear so I’d pull through. It was a kind lie to aid a dying man. I owe you my life. I just need to find my boots and I won’t trouble you again.”

“Cullen.”

His eyes were burning and he still hadn’t found his Maker-forsaken boots. Maybe by the window? He needed to get out now.

“If you… If after knowing my past you feel it would be best if I weren’t commanding the Inquisition’s armies I completely understand. Cassandra will recommend a replacement, and I’ll be happy to be posted wherever I may be more useful.”

Gabriel appeared right in front of him, a bewildered look in his eyes.

“Cullen!”

He looked away, still searching for the boots, a tremor in his voice.

“Or if you’d rather I weren’t part of the Inquisition at all–”

“Cullen, I meant every word I said!”

“–I also understand… What?”

“I never lied. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t know how much of what you said was actually you talking, and how much of it was the fever. I’m trying not to take advantage of you!”

He truly looked at Gabriel then, and found nothing but acceptance in warm green eyes. Hope soared again.

“It was true?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“ _Yes_. I never lied to you, Cullen. And I never will.”

He was tired of doubting, of second-guessing every good thing Gabriel gave him. He wanted to _believe_.

He came closer, placed his hands on both sides of the Inquisitor’s face, finding his confidence, thumbs caressing lips and cheekbones. The other man’s hands mimicked his. He let his forehead fall against Gabriel’s, noses bumping, breath mingling.

“Gabriel. The fever didn’t talk, it just made me reckless enough to tell you what I’d wanted to tell you all along. I want this. Want _you_.”

There was an unwavering smile on his lips even as he kissed him. Cullen had never felt so empowered before, so certain. He deepened the kiss, tongue languidly touching Gabriel’s, tasting, _feeling_. His hands trailed up the sides of Gabriel’s face, fingers tangling in his hair.

This felt _right_.

He pushed gently and Gabriel allowed himself to be sandwiched against the wall. Feeling the other man’s naked torso against his own was bliss. He’d never been this close to him while in good health before.

“Cullen. I want this too - _Maker_ , I want this - but we need to talk firs– mmpf!”

 _Later_. They could talk _later_ , he could go down to the kitchen and eat _later_ , everything else could be done _later_. Right now he needed this, needed to feel Gabriel against him, needed to kiss the other man, needed to marvel at being allowed this most precious of gifts. But Gabriel wouldn’t have it and he pressed his fingers to Cullen’s mouth, joining their foreheads again. His breathing was heavy, and it made a fresh bout of desire spike through the Commander, to see that _he_ had caused it.

“Okay. Okay. Maybe we can talk later. Just… If we do this… Cullen, if we do this we have to be careful. No one can know, and I mean absolutely no one. Are you sure you want to go on like that?”

Cullen felt as if he’d been sucker-punched. He closed his eyes against the fresh onslaught of pain, not wanting Gabriel to see his reaction. Of course. He hadn’t expected it - according to his reputation the mage had never been shy about his escapades - but in retrospect he should have. None of Gabriel’s former flings had been mage-hating trash; it was obvious that the Inquisitor would be ashamed of him. It was only natural. It was to be expected.

One day someone would come along with whom Gabriel would want something real, and they wouldn’t need to know that the mage had lowered himself to be with Cullen. It made sense.

Gabriel’s hands cupped his cheek, always so gentle… It undid him when the other man did that. Of course he was sure. He nodded but felt the need to follow up with words.

“Yes. I’m sure. Yes.” _Yes, I’ll be your shameful secret. Yes, I’ll do anything to have whatever you’re willing to let me have for as long as you’ll let me. Yes, my love. Yes, always yes._

He kissed Gabriel again, then again, again, again and again. As many times as he was allowed, as often as he was allowed, he’d be here, and tonight he was allowed. It was enough, it had to be.

It was hard to tear himself from Gabriel’s mouth, but he wanted to explore everything else. This was real for him at least, even if Gabriel was just passing the time, and for tonight it was _his_. He peppered kisses along Gabriel’s jawline and the other man moaned his name. It was a heady sensation.

He followed the curve of the mage’s neck and, on impulse, suckled on his pulse point, first gently then with more assertiveness. Gabriel was breathless.

“That’s going to leave a mark if you keep that up.”

His confidence wavered and he stopped, placing a kiss on the spot he had just been sucking on to mask his fumble. Gabriel had _just_ told him he didn’t want anyone knowing–

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t like that.”

Gabriel’s voice, like molten fire, went straight to his groin, even as the other man threw his head back, exposing more of his throat.

Maker, Cullen was lost. He was lost, and he never wanted to be found. He suckled in earnest now, both aroused and proud that Gabriel wanted Cullen to mark him, even if he’d hide the evidence or lie about its provenance. Gabriel’s hands tangled in his blond curls.

“Cullen, you have no idea what you do to me.”

“I intend to find out,” he replied with a growl.

Incredible how, after more than a decade without wanting to be with anyone, Gabriel brought out everything he had thought long dead within him. He might not have the experience, but he hoped to make up for it with enthusiasm.

He pressed closer, feeling Gabriel’s hardness against his own through the fabric of their trousers, one of the Inquisitor’s legs wrapped around him. Every movement, no matter how small, brought with it a jolt of desire. It took all of his willpower to step back enough to pull Gabriel with him across the room, towards the bed.

This was… This was everything he had hoped for and more. This was how it should have been, how it _would_ have been months ago if only Cullen had been brave enough to tell Gabriel the truth.

Except… Back then in Haven they hadn’t grown quite so close yet, and the other man might have rejected him then once he learned of the Commander’s past. Better to have waited - Gabriel was worth the wait.

When they reached the bed the mage pushed him playfully, smiling as Cullen fell, arms spread wide on the luxurious sheets. Then he climbed on top of him and it was his turn to mark Cullen’s neck, hands on his back, stuck between him and the bed, caressing old scars and new skin, then sliding down, both hands and mouth.

It was exquisite.

Gabriel’s eyes still burned with intensity and purpose when he sat up slightly, still on top of Cullen, hands roaming down his sides and eyes roving all over his form, voice wrecked with desire.

“You’re beautiful, did you know? Not just handsome but beautiful. Beautiful and handsome and loyal and brave and _good_. I’m having trouble believing I get to have you when I thought I never would.”

“Gabriel,” he replied, throat constricting with emotion, blinking furiously to keep tears at bay. He wished he could tell the other man everything he made him feel, but he was afraid that, if he started, he might not be able to stop himself before divulging his love. He settled for a portion of the truth.

“I’ve never wanted anyone like this. Never.” _I am so sorry I can never be good enough to make you proud, my love._

The mage kissed him again, and Cullen’s arousal grew exponentially. It was perfection. Then Gabriel went back to his neck, his chest, his stomach, kissing everywhere he went. When he reached the waistband of his trousers he looked at Cullen for permission and all the former Templar could do was nod his consent, all out of breath with anticipation.

Tanned hands expertly divested him of his trousers and breeches, managing to make the act both arousing and tender all at once. Gabriel’s fingers touched his hardness and he could have wept with desire, to feel a hand not his own, a _beloved_ hand touching him _there_.

And then Gabriel’s mouth followed suit even as they entwined their fingers together.

 _Oh_ , Maker, this pleasure, all around him, wet and hot and relentless, it was so much better than anything he had dreamed of… And the other man’s thumbs rubbing circles on his palms, making him feel cherished even as pleasure mounted and mounted and kept rising until he could barely breathe.

Cullen hadn’t decided to say the next words but they came out anyway.

“Gabriel. I want you inside me. I need you.”

He didn’t regret his words for a minute. He wanted, _needed_ Gabriel to help erase the memory of Hawke from every inch of his body, to replace the memories of hurt with feelings of desire and acceptance. He needed it like he needed air.

Gabriel’s mouth let go of him and he felt its absence even as the other man followed up with kisses on his stomach, his chest, his neck, his chin and finally his mouth. Beloved green eyes stared warmly into his.

“Are you sure? Shouldn’t we wait? We don’t have to rush anything.”

“I’m certain. Please.”

“I don’t think we should–”

“Gabriel, _please_.”

With one last kiss Gabriel was up and rummaging through a drawer, then another and yet a third until finally, with a triumphant ‘ _a-ha_ ’ he produced a pot of salve and sauntered back to the bed. Cullen couldn’t tear his eyes from him.

It hit him unexpectedly.

Seeing Gabriel open the little pot and begin coating his fingers was like having a bucket of ice water dropped on him, the image of Hawke doing the same with lyrium superimposed in his mind.

His erection wilted in a matter of moments, and his breathing was heavy with something other than pleasure.

He closed his legs together and brought his knees to his chest, ostensibly to allow Gabriel better access but, in truth, to hide the telling softness of his own cock.

Gabriel’s finger at his entrance seemed like an unwelcome intrusion and he fought with himself to allow it, to remind himself that he wanted this. He screwed his eyes shut.

His hands fisted on the bottom sheet even as he tried breathing exercises to help calm him down and relax his muscles to let Gabriel in. He had allowed Hawke to take him with minimal resistance even though he didn’t want to, surely he could do the same for the man he loved, the man he wanted so very much.

Surely he couldn’t be this broken.

It took him a long moment to realise Gabriel was no longer pressing his finger inside but had instead pulled the top sheet to cover Cullen to his waist, sitting next to him on the bed, rubbing circles on his stomach, murmuring comfortingly that everything was alright, that nothing was ever going to happen that he didn’t truly want, embracing him, kissing his forehead.

His hands relaxed from the sheets and he buried his face in the crook of the other man’s neck, breathing in the scent that was so reassuringly _Gabriel_.

Feelings of shame and utter defeat set low in the pit of his stomach. Of course he’d ruined it. To ask for anything else from him was to ask the impossible.

One of Gabriel’s hands came up to rub soothing circles on the small of Cullen’s back, and the former Templar was suddenly and viciously sorry that his back had been healed. He didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve anything that Gabriel was so generously offering, but the cat… _That_ he deserved.

He couldn’t stay here.

He couldn’t stay in Gabriel’s bed, in Gabriel’s arms, taking up the other man’s time and tenderness. He was a waste of space.

He got up to once again search for his boots, disentangling himself abruptly from Gabriel’s embrace and scrambling to put his breeches and trousers back on once he realised the sheet had been the only thing to cover his soft, worthless, useless cock. The other man got up as well.

“Cullen-”

“I need my boots. What have you done with them?”

“Please, can we talk?”

He rounded on Gabriel snarling like the ungrateful dog that he was, biting the hand that had so lovingly fed him. He didn’t think Gabriel would ever forgive him for the vitriol in his words, but it was better that way.

“Are you keeping me here against my will, Inquisitor? Because I have repeatedly asked for my boots and you have yet to answer. Is this how you get your thrills? Making prisoners of your own allies?”

Gabriel recoiled, looking struck. Cullen was less than nothing.

“At the bottom of the stairs. I brought an armour stand, you’ll find your armour, your boots and your sword there.” Walking over to his vanity he pulled out a tunic and threw it in Cullen’s direction without even looking, his voice professional and unfeeling. “Here. Yours was beyond saving after I had to cut it. Wear it, keep it, give it back, set it on fire, I don’t care.”

He ought to kneel at Gabriel’s feet and beg the forgiveness he didn’t deserve. Instead he wordlessly picked up the tunic and threw it over his head without so much as a thank you. It was too tight, but it was better than to put on his armour with nothing underneath. And it smelled of Gabriel, gave him comfort he didn’t deserve.

He needed to get to the cat.

He wouldn’t overdo it this time, never again would he give Gabriel cause to have healers brought in to take care of him, but he needed to dampen the knowledge of his worthlessness somehow.

The mage was also dressing himself, and Cullen fought the impulse to ask him where he could possibly be going in the middle of the night. Maybe he was going to find someone who could give and receive pleasure without failing at it so completely. Whatever Gabriel chose to do with his time, Cullen had no right to ask.

Once he’d finally put on his armour - that had rather efficiently been cleaned while he recovered - and had his hand on the door handle he was startled to find Gabriel coming down the stairs towards him, a determined look on his face.

“I’m walking you to your tower. You can look at it as me escorting my prisoner to freedom if you prefer, but there’s something I have to do and I’m walking you there either way.”

Cullen didn’t say anything, he just opened the door and walked, Gabriel striding right behind him. Less than an hour ago this man, this wonderful man had called him… What was it? ‘ _Beautiful and handsome and loyal and brave and_ good.’ He was quite certain he was none of those things. He might be somewhat handsome on the outside, but the ugliness inside eclipsed all the rest.

He took the long way to his tower, breathing in the cold night air from the vantage point of the battlements. Irrelevantly he wondered if he were to jump from there to the outside of Skyhold in his armour, how long it would take before he hit the ground. He didn’t stop.

Finally he was at the door to his tower, minutes away from the cat, was about to close the door in Gabriel’s face when the other man stopped it with his foot, forced his way in. Shut the door behind him and leaned on it to prevent anyone from getting in.

“Like I said, there’s something I have to do. Whatever you used on your back, I have to see it. Then I’ll go.”

Cullen didn’t know how to react.

But Gabriel had said he’d leave once he’d seen it, so he climbed up the stairs to find the cat where he’d left it before leaving for the Shrine of Dumat, still sitting on the small round bench. The former Templar hadn’t had the time to clean it, and some of its strips were still caked in his dried blood.

No matter. Gabriel would see it and go, and then Cullen would have the time to clean it properly before putting it to use.

He climbed down the stairs to thrust it in Gabriel’s hands and _hated_ seeing him with it.

Gabriel looked at the cat and swallowed, visibly unnerved. His fingers followed the strips to their knotted blood-encrusted ends. Looking a shade paler he held the cat for Cullen to take back.

“That… Looks rather painful. I could tell, judging from your back, but seeing it is… Something else.”

Cullen didn’t reply.

“I’ll be honest, Cullen, I can’t say I’m looking forward to feeling the effects of that myself at all.”

The former Templar stared in shock, certain he could only have misheard.

“ _What_?”

“I could _order_ you not to use it,” he went on, conversationally, as if he were discussing the weather, “say it was for the good of the Inquisition. And maybe you’d even follow that order, but you’re an alarmingly intelligent man. If you wanted to hurt yourself you’d find another way. So I’m left with this: whatever you do to harm yourself, when I find out - and I _will_ find out - I’ll do to _myself_. And, trust me, you won’t be able to deter me from it by mentioning you need me whole to close rifts. Right now I couldn’t care less. Please try to be gentle with me, will you? And if you have need of me, you know where to find me.”

“Gabriel,” he called out to his retreating back, not really knowing what he’d say. The mage didn’t turn as he was closing the door, but offered a parting shot.

“I still mean every word I said, Cullen.”

* * *

On the outside of the tower Gabriel pressed his forehead to the stone, right hand splayed on the thick wall separating him from Cullen. Stupid, how could he have been so stupid? He’d known how vulnerable Cullen was, he never should have allowed things to progress that far. Of course it was too soon for sex, of course Cullen would have been desperate to return to normality, of course Gabriel should have seen the cart wreck waiting to happen.

He’d been too elated that Cullen had agreed to keep their relationship a secret, rather than delaying its beginning until Hawke had been dealt with, and he had been far too eager to give the man he loved anything he wanted. Cullen’s ‘please’ had completely undone him.

His stupidity had cost Cullen further pain, and Gabriel would have to have been blind not to notice the other man’s intent was to cause himself harm as soon as he left there. He could only hope that his gamble had paid off. He knew Cullen would want anything but for Gabriel to get hurt because of him, but maybe the compulsion was too strong. Maybe he’d need to see Gabriel actually bleeding before he held himself in check. Maker he hoped not. He hadn’t been bluffing, he’d do it, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to.

It had taken all of his willpower to act as coldly efficient as he could back in his quarters when talking to Cullen, when giving him his tunic; everything in him had screamed for him to beg the other man to stay and talk, to allow Gabriel to comfort him. But Cullen had needed that distance - anything else and he’d have lashed out worse at Gabriel and then blamed himself for it later.

He never wanted Cullen to blame himself for anything Gabriel caused ever again.

Tomorrow. He’d know how to fix this tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One step forward, two steps back. I swear I wanted them to have their happy ever after sooner, but neither one can see the whole picture yet and they just keep getting tangled up in the details.


	14. Fourteen

He didn’t sleep a wink that night. Sleepless nights seemed to be becoming a pattern where anything related to Cullen was concerned.

The sun was already up. No rest for the wicked and all that. Today there was a War Room meeting to discuss what to do with the information gleaned from the Shrine of Dumat; he had meant to let Cullen know last night but, with everything else, it had slipped his mind. He’d need to send a runner. And he’d need to tell the Commander about Anders.

Getting up to start the day he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and froze. There was a large love bite on his neck, the spot rather tender now that he allowed himself to focus on it. He let his fingers graze it, his heart beating rapidly.

Cullen had done that. Had _wanted_ to do that, had done it deliberately. Had kissed him so passionately, with such certainty of purpose, and then had wanted to mark him for everyone to see.

And Gabriel was in no particular mood to make the other man’s life easier by hiding it even if just for the meeting.

If Gabriel allowed him to, Cullen would pull away. He’d retreat behind hurt and duty, self-loathing and work, and he’d never come back to Gabriel’s arms.

At this point he couldn’t care less about having the other man come back to his bed – like he’d underlined, he had meant every word he said; that included when he’d told the former Templar that stopping sex didn’t mean having to stop anything else – but he wouldn’t let him walk out of his life without being completely sure that that was what Cullen truly wanted.

If to do that he would have to unsettle the Commander, well, he’d played riskier games back in Ostwick. None with such an important prize, but the games themselves had been riskier nevertheless.

He loved Cullen, and unlike what he’d thought before, now he believed the other man could be wooed. What was a little hurt, a little emotional bruising Gabriel might endure in the process, if it meant having Cullen return his feelings in the end? He wasn’t afraid to fail, only of never having tried at all.

He left the top buttons of his shirt undone, quite on purpose.

Leliana would send him furtive looks pregnant with meaning, Josephine would pry, Cass would stammer and blush.

The Bull would clap him on the back, Varric would make a witty comment, Sera would have a rude remark, Vivienne a haughty one.

Cole would… He’d better keep Cullen as far away from Cole as humanly possible, lest he inadvertently revealed something Cullen would rather keep hidden.

Blackwall and Solas were the least likely to say anything at all and Dorian… Dorian was the one person Gabriel trusted enough to share his attempts to woo Cullen with; some tales weren’t his to share, but the Altus understood the need for secrecy well, even not having the full picture.

They all would talk, loudly and insistently or subtle and needling. Cullen would be reminded, at every turn, that Gabriel had _wanted_ him to leave a mark.

And this was only the beginning of his plan.

Last night, after things had gone so terribly wrong, he’d allowed Cullen to keep him at arm’s length but today? Today was a different day, and he’d be dammed if he’d allow the man he loved to wallow in misery because of Gabriel’s stupidity.

Heart skipping a beat every once in a while he scribbled his note - short, polite, professional - about the meeting and sent a runner to the Commander’s tower. Cullen was far too important to give up on.

_Commander Cullen,_

_The presence of the Inquisition’s advisors is required in the War Room within the hour, so that the information recently recovered from the Shrine of Dumat may be analysed._

_Yours,_

_Gabriel Trevelyan._

He had purposely left out both the Sincerely and his title – it was a thrill to tell Cullen he was _his_ , no matter the deception he had to use.

* * *

Cullen had sat on his bench, staring at the cat, until the sky was dark enough that he knew dawn was fast approaching. Then he’d climbed down and stored the offending item in a desk drawer with his lyrium kit, locking it. Two things now that, despite his need, he wouldn’t be using.

He’d had everything he’d ever wanted within his grasp. Gabriel, smiling, giving, flush with desire for _him_ ; _praising_ him, of all things.

And Cullen hadn’t been worth any of that, had been pathetic, useless and needy, and then had attacked Gabriel for it. He longed for the pain, for some form of punishment, anything to take his mind off of what had happened.

But he couldn’t.

The thought of Gabriel enduring even a single lash because of him was unbearable. Why would the other man make such a vow? Why care at all - as long as Cullen fulfilled his duties - after the abominable way he’d reacted?

It was his damnable nobility of character, the same trait that had him fetching blankets for refugees himself instead of sending an agent, that made him search for misplaced wedding rings and other lost trinkets. Every report Gabriel submitted revealed an appalling misuse of the Inquisitor’s time, but the man insisted on doing everything himself, and his generosity ended up being what inspired such loyalty in his men.

And now he’d turned his singular focus on Cullen’s well being. Maker help him. Maker help them both.

He decided to go to the training grounds. Hopefully at least Cassandra would arrive shortly – training dummies would do him no good.

Several hours later every muscle in his body ached and some of his men whispered that the Commander seemed possessed by a vengeful spirit. He’d sparred with Cassandra, with the Bull, several of the Chargers and his own men. He had perhaps been too harsh, set too brutal a pace, but he had needed the punishing rhythm to be able to function. He’d be generous when organising rotations to make up for it.

He arrived at his tower in time to see a runner approaching. Cullen didn’t know what to feel when he read Gabriel’s note. Truth be told he didn’t know what to feel since the night before, when he’d… When…

No matter. That chapter of his life was closed now, ended by his own inadequacy, and all he could do now was give his all to the Inquisition. Samson. The Shrine of Dumat. He had less than one hour to organise his thoughts into semi-coherent notes. _That_ he could do.

* * *

Tittering was definitely not the sound he had expected to greet him upon entering the War Room. Gabriel and the other two advisors were already there, and the women seemed to hover above the mage as vultures. Cullen couldn’t even _see_ Gabriel with the spy mistress and the ambassador crowding him, which was just as well; he had no business trying to steal glimpses of the Inquisitor.

“That is simply not fair, Inquisitor,” Leliana lilted, “you must tell us more.”

“I quite agree, Lord Trevelyan,” Josephine added, laughter in her voice, “as the Inquisition’s ambassador I feel it is my duty to learn these things.”

No one seemed to have noticed his arrival, so Cullen cleared his throat, awkwardness taking hold.

“Oh, hello Commander. Maybe you can shed light on this mystery, seeing as how our _Lord Inquisitor_ here,” Leliana underscored Gabriel’s title with a snigger, “is being rather uncooperative.”

It would be a very sorry person indeed, the one who mistook either of these women as merely gossipy. Leliana in particular never so much as yawned without at least three ulterior motives. Whatever she was trying to get out of Gabriel, it was more important than the mage might realise. Cullen steeled himself to wear the mantle of normality the same way he wore his fur surcoat.

“Do I dare ask what he’s being uncooperative about?”

“He refuses to tell us who gave him _that_ ,” the spy mistress replied, stepping to the side. Cullen forgot to exhale after he’d inhaled sharply at the sight.

Gabriel had left his top buttons undone, leaving the mark Cullen had left on him out in the open, for everyone to see. Surely he had gone mad overnight. What could possibly have possessed him that he’d do this? He had to know the reaction he’d cause.

“I…” He cleared his throat again, hand rubbing the back of his neck, rapid heartbeat reminding him that he had a matching mark hidden underneath fur and armour. “I fail to see how that is any of our business, Leliana.”

“You aren’t the least bit curious, Cullen? Or the least bit offended that the Inquisitor was counting the minutes until you were well and out of his quarters to go Andraste-knows-where that very same night?”

“Not to mention Lord Trevelyan insists on wearing his clothes like that. I’ll have three enquiries from our allies on my desk before the lunch bell. He could at least cover it.”

“Ladies, ladies,” Gabriel replied, his voice cheerful, “I know my neck is a very important neck and whatnot, but it’s still my prerogative to keep it covered or uncovered as I see fit. You’d think I was running around Skyhold in my smalls.”

“Gabriel,” Josephine entreated, her voice less teasing and more pleading now that she had dropped the title, “at least tell me if it’s anyone important from our visiting noblemen. Or, Maker forbid, the _mistress_ of anyone important.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“Can they be parted to at tell us if we should expect further marks on display anytime soon?” the frazzled ambassador queried, throwing her hands in the air.

“That I honestly don’t know. I can only hope so.”

“Oh?” Leliana’s eyes were shrewd. “Now this is interesting. How so?”

“It takes two people for these things to happen, as I trust you know. I’m a flexible man, but not quite so flexible that I could do that to myself.”

“And the other party is no longer interested?”

“I don’t know. I hope the… _other party,_ as you say, can forgive an act of stupidity in the heat of the moment and be persuaded to come back.”

Cullen’s heart clenched even as his cheeks reddened. How could Gabriel ever imagine it was Cullen who should forgive him?

“From what I hear you have no shortage of _interested parties_ if this specific one proves resistant.”

“I’m not interested in any other interested party, I’m afraid. This may take work, but I’ve never shied away from a challenge. Besides, anything in life that’s worth having takes work, or so I’m told.”

Gabriel smiled that dazzling smile of his looking straight at Cullen, eyes glittering with mischievous warmth. Why would he say such a thing after having admitted he was ashamed of having the former Templar in his bed? It made no sense.

“I believe we needed to discuss Samson?” Cullen was proud of the way he redirected, his voice steady despite the crimson extending all the way to his ears.

“Yes, let’s talk about Samson instead,” Gabriel acquiesced, touching the mark on his neck. “I believe our Cullen has heard more than what he wanted to hear about my love life today.”

Cullen had an undignified coughing fit.

“I have to say, Commander,” Leliana began, turning her attention to him, “I’m a little disappointed. I’ve grown used to your attention to detail, and the single sheet that the Inquisitor submitted while you were recovering, well. My agents could have told me that and more. I had rather hoped that, with your participation in the mission, I’d be treated to one of _your_ reports.”

“You’ll have my full report before the day is through, Leliana.”

“Thank you, Cullen.”

The red-headed spy mistress smiled beatifically. It was a terrifying sight, and Cullen felt very sorry for anyone who dared cross her.

“Leliana,” Josephine chided, “the poor Commander has only just recovered. I am certain we can allow him some breathing space before we start making demands of his time.”

So perhaps _Josephine_ was allowed to cross her unpunished.

“Perhaps you’re right. I can always debrief Gabriel more thoroughly in the mean time.”

Even Gabriel looked appropriately terrified at the prospect.


	15. Fifteen

As he watched the dreadnought go down in flames and smoke, Gabriel’s first thought was that he felt lighter than he ever had when confronted with the loss of life. It wasn’t that he had _wanted_ the qunari to die, by any means, or that he placed a lesser value on qunari life than any other; it was the knowledge of what the alternative would have been.

The Chargers were a part of their rag-tag band, and as close to family as the Bull had ever had; he could never have willingly sacrificed them, no matter how important the alliance he had been trying to forge. It was too bad that the qunari would never help the Inquisition now, it was a shame that all the lives in the dreadnought had been lost, but he wouldn’t be bringing bodies back to Skyhold for a funeral. The absence of funerals was a plus for him any day of the week.

* * *

“I’m bored, I’m tired, I’m hungry and my legs hurt,” the spymistress complained in a whining tone that was entirely unlike her.

“Should we have chairs brought in? Some snacks? Perhaps an unemployed jester?”

Cullen snorted at Gabriel’s less than useful suggestions, and even Josephine couldn’t contain a snicker. Leliana lifted herself up by her wrists and _sat_. On their map. Gabriel swore he could see a vein pulsing on Cullen’s neck as the red-headed rogue delicately placed her not inconsiderable rump between two markers, managing not to disturb any of them in the process.

“I don’t _want_ a jester. I want dinner.”

“Dinner,” Gabriel repeated, “before the lunch bell.”

Her legs dangled prettily from the war room table, and Cullen looked on the verge of a stroke every time one of the pieces gently shook with her cadence.

“Leliana, can you _please_ get off the table? There are weeks of planning there, as I am certain you’re aware,” Cullen rebuked.

“Of course not before the lunch bell,” she carried on, as if she hadn’t heard the Commander, “I want dinner at dinner time. Seated. In an actual chair.”

“And yet I could swear you had that just yesterday. And the day before. And will get to have it today, if you so choose.”

“Not in the Great Hall, Gabriel! There are ears everywhere there. Eyes too, and not all of them mine.”

“So you want to have dinner…”

“In your quarters, of course,” she chirped, “and in proper clothing. We practically live in our armours. Except you, Josie. You always look ready to party.”

Josephine stared and Cullen looked away, a sudden shadow in his eyes. Whatever was going on with Leliana, though, Gabriel was certain that it had very little to do with wanting to dine with him in his quarters in fine clothing.

“So, to recap, you want to have dinner in my quarters with proper clothing. And where will I be during said dinner?”

“You’re the host, of course. Whenever we need to discuss anything that doesn’t involve moving markers on the map I expect an invitation to dinner. The four of us can get much more accomplished if we sit down over a meal and a bottle of wine at a decent hour. Or just one or two of us, if the others aren’t needed. And it’s easier to ensure there’s no eavesdropping. Not to mention it’s probably the only way to ensure that the Commander here doesn’t get crumbs on my reports.”

She smiled wolfishly and Gabriel would have crossed the room to kiss her if that wouldn’t have sent Cullen the entirely wrong message. A cover story. She was offering him a cover story, gift-wrapped in a neat bow, for whenever he had Cullen up in his quarters. ‘Inquisition business.’ Hawke was a shrewd man, but if Gabriel made it a habit of having his advisors up for dinner and late-night strategy sessions, he wouldn’t suspect anything else might be afoot.

“Leliana, we cannot impose on the Inquisitor’s time like that,” Josephine complained.

“Nonsense. It’s an excellent idea,” he quickly cut across her. “We should all have dinner tonight, fine clothing and all.”

* * *

The dinner was a resounding success, despite Cullen’s inner reservations. He’d felt unreasonably jealous at first – as if he had the flimsiest claim on Gabriel, which was a ridiculous notion – but the spy mistress had meant for the dinner to include the other two advisors, rather than being a ploy to be alone with Gabriel.

Leliana’s idea actually made for a very productive meeting, and if it became a recurring thing it would nullify the need for over half of their early mornings in the war room, which would free up more of his time for sparring.

Gabriel, however, had spent the entire dinner stealing glances at Cullen, smiling warmly when he managed to make the former Templar blush with his innuendo. It was driving him mad.

Josephine had been the first to leave, claiming exhaustion. Leliana excused herself shortly after and Cullen would have done the same if she hadn’t effectively entrapped him, asking him to stay behind and work on possible troop positions for added security at the Winter Palace. Obediently he had began discussing just that, but they both knew it was too delicate an issue to be sorted at the tail end of a night, and that it would probably involve the use of their map regardless.

Gabriel opted to sit closer to Cullen, content to hear him speak for the time being. Of course, hearing him speak and hearing what he was saying were two distinct things, much to Cullen’s chagrin.

“Gabriel? Have you listened to a word I said for the past ten minutes?”

“What? I’m sorry, I was distracted.”

Cullen got up from his chair.

“It’s late. We’ll continue this when you’re better able to concentrate.”

“When will that be? I don’t see you becoming any less distracting in the future.”

“Excuse me?”

Gabriel rose as well and stepped closer, making Cullen step back a pace.

“What can I say? I know what you were saying was important, but all I could think of was how much I’ve missed you these past weeks.”

“Please stop that, Gabriel.”

“I would, but I don’t think I want to. Or that I could, even if I did.”

“Maker’s breath, you’re relentless.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Cullen exhaled, eyes darting to the door. He shouldn’t have started this conversation.

“Very well, Inquisitor.” Gabriel flinched at the title. “If you can’t be persuaded to stop this then I have no choice but to endure it. I’ll take my leave now, if I may?”

“That’s not true, Cullen.” Gabriel’s voice was softer now, less certain.

“What’s not true?”

“That you don’t have a choice. You have a choice. You’ll _always_ have a choice with me.”

Something in his tone caught the former Templar’s attention and he turned his eyes to Gabriel’s only to be startled by the sadness that had suddenly tinted them darker.

“If you won’t give up, then what choice do I have?”

“Look at me and tell me you don’t want me. Tell me that that moment has passed, that the reason you keep saying no is because you don’t see yourself ever wanting me again. It’s that simple. I’ll stop, I promise I’ll stop.”

Cullen swallowed but didn’t break eye contact. Very slowly, very deliberately, every breath a measured effort of will he said, “I really don’t want you to keep doing this, Gabriel.”

“No.” An undercurrent of steel in shattered green eyes. “You don’t get an easy out like that. Not that you don’t want me to do this. That you don’t want _me_. Full stop. Tell me you don’t want anything that I’m offering except perhaps my friendship, or maybe not even that. I’ll stop. You always have a choice.”

The tightening in Cullen’s chest was wholly expected and yet no less painful for it. He loved this man _so much_. He could never say something like that. But…

“You don’t keep a broken toy, Gabriel.”

“Then it’s a good thing you’re neither broken nor a toy.”

Unable to face Gabriel after such an inane proclamation he started pacing. He’d give almost anything for the clarity of lyrium right now, for the quiet certainty of the little blue poison.

“I don’t know what you expect from me. What is it you could possibly want?”

“Haven’t I made my intentions perfectly clear by now?”

_No_. No, he hadn’t. The mage had made it clear that there was a very defined limit to what Cullen could hope for, but then his every word, his every action belied that. He treated Cullen as if the former Templar was dear to him. Precious. _Beloved_ , even. He made it so very hard to resist that the Commander often forgot why he wanted to resist in the first place.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably until Gabriel stepped up to him, right in front of him to stop his pacing.

“Can I kiss you?”

“And then what?” Cullen asked, exasperated, anguish bleeding into his voice, “I kiss you back? I take you to bed and ask you to… To… Only to prove that I cannot act like a normal person?”

“I didn’t go for normal when I came for you; I went for extraordinary.”

The things Gabriel said sometimes felt like a body blow even when they were good things – _especially_ when they were good things.

“Don’t pretend to misunderstand me: do you want to kiss me so I can ruin this even more thoroughly with my failings?”

Gabriel came even closer, fists opening and closing, the green of the anchor flickering with his movement.

“You’ve ruined _nothing_. Everything you keep saying is so heartbreakingly wrong that I might just spontaneously combust if you don’t give me permission to touch you.”

“Touch as you will, then,” he replied, lifting his arms in surrender, anger tainting his voice, “by all means, feel free to waste your time.”

Gabriel had his arms around him before Cullen had even finished speaking. He sucked in a breath that sounded suspiciously like a gasp when he felt Gabriel’s warmth, anger evaporating, and his own arms entrapped the other man as certainly as a vice. The mage’s forehead touched his, his voice pitched low and as warm as his embrace.

“I thought I’d made it abundantly clear before that you could never be a waste of my time.”

He was done fighting this. He’d made no secret of the fact that he wasn’t worthy of Gabriel’s time and affection but, every time, the mage kept coming back. He didn’t have it in him to resist any longer, no matter how humiliatingly badly he knew this would end tonight.

He was the first to crush his lips to the other man’s, relief flooding him now that he’d decided to give in. Gabriel kissed him back instantly, one hand around his waist, the other one on the back of his neck, and Cullen was absurdly grateful that Leliana had insisted that these dinners be armour-free. He wanted to feel as much of Gabriel as he could, right down to the unruly lock of hair that tickled his face.

One more time in Gabriel’s arms, to store and revisit. One more chance, that he’d no doubt ruin before the night was through.

He wished he could slow time to a crawl so it would last longer. He wished he wouldn’t fail when the moment came.

He stopped wishing and gave into feeling instead. One moment at a time. One _kiss_ at a time. He closed his eyes to better savour each kiss. He’d miss them all the more after tonight was over.

‘ _Thank you, my love. For every minute that I don’t deserve. I wish I could tell you…_ ’

Gabriel pulled him along, manoeuvring around extra chairs and the table, to lie with him on the bed. Cullen didn’t resist, even as his heart felt heavy with his impending failure. Feeling the mage’s fingertips on his waist against his skin, where they’d managed to snake under his shirt, was bittersweet, and his own found the inside of Gabriel’s shirt to feel his back.

Gabriel was generous. He gave Cullen everything he wanted and he didn’t demand anything in return, not for the longest of times. When he finally pulled away his cheeks were tinged red despite his tan, and his eyes shone warmly in a smile.

Cullen wracked his mind for something, _anything_ he could do so he wouldn’t ruin this. Anything so he’d behave like a man and not a frightened nug. Nothing came to mind. He could try, but failure was almost a given.

“I’m having a really hard time being the responsible one and telling you that we need to stop for tonight if we don’t want any rumours to spread. No one on one strategy session is quite this long.” A kiss. “A _really_ hard time; all I want to do is sneak under the covers with you and stay wrapped up like this ’til morning. Did I mention how much I missed you?”

They were done for the night? But Gabriel had led him to the bed… Just to kiss him? His heart swelled.

One more day. A period of grace before he lost it for good. Tonight was too late and he’d have one more day. He didn’t bother fighting the smile that spread from ear to ear. One more day.

“You _have_ mentioned it, yes. I… I have missed you as well. Very much.”

“Can we meet for lunch tomorrow in our chess corner? Something better than broth this time around, I promise.”

“You want to see me at lunchtime?” He didn’t really know why that surprised him – they’d sat together to share a meal before – but he hadn’t been expecting it. A warm feeling settled in his chest.

“I know we won’t be able to kiss out in the open, or even say anything compromising, and if you have things to do that’s fine, I just… The three of you keep sending me all over Thedas and I never know for how long. I’d like to see more of you when I’m here.”

One more smile that Cullen didn’t care to fight. Gabriel wanted to see him just for the pleasure of his company, even when he gained nothing from it. Again, it wasn’t that it hadn’t happened before, but it was unexpected all the same.

And he was trusting Cullen not to do anything that would shame him, that would give this – whatever _this_ was – away. Cullen would honour that trust to his dying breath; no one would ever know from him just how much of Gabriel he’d been permitted to have.

“I’ll be there as soon as the lunch bell sounds,” he said, and then kissed Gabriel again just because he still could.

“Maybe a little after that? I have a meeting with Fiona, and I should be done by then but I don’t want to keep you waiting.”

That gave him pause.

“With Fiona? Is everything alright with the mages?”

“Everything is fine with the mages, it’s a personal favour.”

“Oh.” None of his business, then.

“I want to see if she’ll teach me Spirit Healing.”

“Spirit Healing?” Cullen sat up and Gabriel followed suit. “Do you actually have the time to learn something like that?”

Gabriel’s eyes were alight and vibrant with interest.

“I’ll _make_ time if I have someone to teach me, no matter how long it takes. You almost died on me.” And now his green eyes were darker again with the remnants of his worry. “You almost died on me and I couldn’t do anything. I never want to feel like that again.”

Cullen placed his hand on the other man’s arm, touched by his concern.

“Clearly I wouldn’t have died. I made it until Fiona got there, didn’t I? So don’t fret.”

“You’re determined to leave here far later than you should, aren’t you? That’s a conversation that we definitely need to have, but not tonight. Tomorrow, for dinner? We’ll tell Leliana we’re still discussing Winter Palace security and that Josie and her aren’t needed. I’ll tell you all about it then. Not at lunch, though - I don’t trust Skyhold.”

With that criptic statement he rose to fix his hair and clothes in front of the mirror, leaving Cullen to dwell on the joy of getting to be with Gabriel at both lunch and dinner the following day.

“There. This looks safe enough to walk you to your lair, doesn’t it? It doesn’t immediately scream ‘we’ve been kissing for hours’?”

“You look fine, but I know the way. There’s no need to walk with me.”

“Nonsense. I need to check up on the Bull after this last mission anyway, and the Herald’s Rest is almost on the way. Unless you’re that eager to be rid of me?”

An impish grin told him that the other man wasn’t serious, and Cullen replied, with a smile, “I’m sure I could be persuaded to suffer your company for a little longer.”

Gabriel ended up having to fix both of their hairs and clothes after the kisses that followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I were naming chapters this one would have been titled "Warmth". Finally, some progress!


	16. Sixteen

Gabriel spent the entire morning trying not to look as though he were floating on air. He’d gone halfway across the courtyard before realising that Fiona would be in the library, where she always was, and was now turning back, feet walking of their own volition as his mind whirled away.

Maker, he had it bad. The Bull had acknowledged his state of mind with a knowing smirk the previous night, in the tavern, but had opted not to comment on it, much to Gabriel’s relief. Hiding this was going to be one of the hardest things he’d ever done - his privileged life in the Circle had left him woefully unprepared for any kind of sneaking around. He could only hope Hawke’s spies were far less competent than the former Ben Hassrath.

He wished he didn’t have to hide it, of course, but that was only temporary, and it paled in comparison with knowing Cullen had let him in. He was determined not to mess it up this time.

Cullen. There had been a moment last night when Gabriel had been terrified, in that all-encompassing, soul-crushing way, that he was crossing a line with his attempts to woo the former Templar. Hearing Cullen say he had no choice had been heartbreaking. But Cullen wanted him after all and Gabriel had gotten through to him. He fought down a smile, looking at the floor to avoid anyone noticing it.

“My, _someone_ ’s distracted this morning. Do all you southern heathens walk by your friends without even a glance? No fear of a literal backstabbing whatsoever? How positively barbaric!”

His head shot up guiltily, then whipped backwards to take a look. Had he walked right past Dorian and not even noticed it? He backtracked.

“Sorry Dorian, I didn’t see you there.”

“I noticed. All three times. I was tempted to let you go around a fourth time, but I was getting dizzy watching you.”

“Wha… I did _not_ go around three times,” he huffed indignantly.

“Didn’t you? Must be my mistake, then,” Dorian replied with a smirk, the perfect curl of his moustache rising slightly, mischief colouring his eyes. “Or it would be, if someone of my magnificence were capable of making mistakes.”

Ugh. Now he’d always wonder if he actually _had_ done three full circles.

“That’s not very nice, is it?”

Dorian laughed - not smirked, or quirked a corner of his mouth or any other of his myriad expressions, but a genuine, far-too-amused-at-Gabriel’s-expense bout of laughter.

“‘Not very nice’? Pardon me, I was under the impression that I was talking to the grown-up version of Lord Trevelyan. I’ll have you know I’m not a very nice man, my dear toddler.”

“Oh, shut up,” Gabriel replied, fighting his own losing battle with the corners of his mouth, “if I’m as distracted as you claim then this is the equivalent of kicking a man while he’s down. Now who’s the barbarian?”

“Certainly not me. It’s exactly when he’s down that it’s prudent to kick a man, I assure you. I may not be very nice, as you put it, but I am definitely wise beyond my years.”

“Ugh, you’re impossible.”

“And you,” Dorian paused for dramatic effect, finger pointing accusingly at him, “are hiding something. And it’s not very nice to hide things from your friends, now, is it?”

Warning bells started ringing in his mind. Yes, he wanted to tell Dorian - he needed to tell someone, and there was no one he trusted more, much to Mother Giselle’s dismay - but not here. Leliana had said it best: many eyes, many ears and not all of them hers. And yet this could prove to be an advantage. Misdirection, in case Hawke was suspicious.

“Consider it my revenge then. You’ll just have to stew in your curiosity. At least until dinner tomorrow. My quarters. Just you, alright, Dorian? We can do dinner with Michel another time.”

“You’re making me suffer until tomorrow night? There’s a little bit of Tevinter in you after all!”

It was Gabriel’s turn to guffaw. “There have actually never been any bits of Tevinter in me. Lots of Marchers. Some Fereldens, a few Orlesians, some Rivaini and one notable Antivan. Never any bit of Tevinter.”

Dorian’s delighted laughter followed him all the way to Fiona.

* * *

Cullen arrived well before the lunch bell. Yes, Gabriel had said it was safer to assume he’d be a little late, but even an hour before Cullen was a nervous wreck. He had no idea why; it was a simple lunch, like so many before, but the thought of seeing Gabriel for the first time after the previous night – the first time since they’d become more than friends, if much less than what Cullen’s traitorous heart would have wanted – had his stomach twisting in knots.

Like an unwelcome leech his addiction-fueled headache had latched on to his state of mind and he was seeing double by the time the lunch bell sounded. He couldn’t really tell if he’d waited for far too long or if the nausea and headache simply made it seem like it had been far too long but, finally, Gabriel arrived with food and a smile, that waned when he got a good look at Cullen’s sunken eyes.

“Hey. You look terrible. How are you feeling?”

“I’ll manage.”

“Not what I asked.”

“It’s just a headache.”

Gabriel eyed the complex Orlesian meal he’d brought with him distrustfully.

“I can get broth if you’re not up to eating this.”

“It’s fine. Really, it’s just a headache.”

The Inquisitor let out a breath, not entirely convinced, but eventually relented.

“I’m sorry, I’m being a mother hen. If you say it’s fine I won’t insist.”

Despite how touching Gabriel’s concern was, easing a bit of the nerves twisting Cullen’s stomach, he was glad the other man had chosen to let it go. He was the Commander of the Inquisition’s armies, not a flower maiden to be coddled; it was a common headache.

The game itself was far too richly prepared for his simple Fereldan palate, but it was well cooked and he should get acquainted with this type of meal if he was to be part of the Inquisition’s delegation to Empress Celene’s ball.

Besides.

He’d gladly have eaten mostly anything for the pleasure of sharing the meal with Gabriel.

It wasn’t so much what they discussed – all safe topics, nothing of substance regarding either work or… _them,_ whatever _them_ might mean – but that they were here, that _Gabriel_ had chosen to be here, with him, when there were a dozen more interesting choices of lunch companions, that soothed his soul. He would never get enough of that dazzling smile aimed his way.

Slowly the tension ebbed and his shoulders relaxed. The headache remained but it was less overbearing somehow, more manageable. A full hour passed before Cullen rose, effectively ending their lunch; he didn’t think he’d ever taken the full hour to eat except when Josephine insisted they all share a meal with whatever important dignitary had come to visit, and that was work as well. This, spending his time with Gabriel? It was pure self indulgence that he couldn’t bring himself to regret.

The Inquisitor rose as well, lips quirked upwards, shook his hand in a businesslike way that, Cullen insisted to himself, didn’t entirely break his heart, and then came closer and murmured, voice pitched low, “bring a tunic with you tonight, and a change of underwear.”

It was over in a second and Gabriel had already gone, but the Commander was left reeling. His headache was suddenly all-encompassing, shattered nerves bringing nausea back into the fold. Of course it was tonight. He’d known the day before was just a temporary reprieve from having to face his failure. He’d _known_. There was no reason it should crush him so. He strode purposely from the table, boots grounding the snow beneath him as if they could ground his ineptitude into fine dust. Tonight. It would be over tonight.

* * *

Gabriel was beginning to wish his days would have twice the hours in them. Fiona had agreed to teach him and he’d thought it meant delving straight into Spirit Healing, much to her amusement. Instead he was being taught the simplest of healing magic, little more than headache relief, and being subjected to a lecture on _intent_. He already knew all about intent, thank you very much - did she think he’d skipped his Circle training? Avoided classes so he could sneak into alcoves with whomever stroke his fancy? He’d taken his classes seriously, despite taking little else thus; how else would he have managed to modify his Winter’s Grasp without harming Cullen? His fingers itched with the magic contained therein.

Still, by the time the older mage called their session over, just as the afternoon light was fading, he was glad that all the finer points of “intent” had been made known to him; for all his internal grumbling he hadn’t ever learned them from a healer’s perspective, and that made quite a difference. Even after such short a time he felt he’d made enough progress to put his plan into motion.

Josephine would have his head for having taken the entire day instead of following up on his many duties, and many more days would follow. He dropped by her office just as she was leaving with the only solution he could think of. No matter what Ser Morris thought, Gabriel had been so uninterested in the specialisations available to him that he had yet to choose one of the trainers, let alone begin in earnest. Spirit Healing was what he wanted to learn, and Fiona was available to teach him. (Anders would have been preferable, of course, but he refrained from voicing that particular thought aloud.) That was what his specialisation would be.

Josie had either known it was pointless to argue or was vaguely aware of how helpless he’d felt with a dying Cullen in his care, because she didn’t put up a fight. There. Now all the time spent with Fiona could be attributed to his Inquisition duties, rather than take from them. It was time to set the rest of his plan in motion for the night.

* * *

Backpack in hand, filled with reports so as to fool any observer, his clean underwear and tunic hidden safely at the bottom, Cullen’s fist hovered on the edge of knocking on Gabriel’s door. The day had both been far too long and gone by too fast. He didn’t know if he wanted to be here or far away. And still his headache rattled inside his skull, squeezing his brain and adding pressure behind his eyes.

He wished he could go back in time, savour his time with Gabriel in the snow, even if fever and pain had been hounding his every thought back then. Or to the night he’d woken up in Gabriel’s bed, already recovered. To any moment before now, where he’d still have more time with the man he loved before his own sickening ineptitude took everything he held dear from him.

Everything he felt hinged on wishes, the flimsiest almost-prayers to an absentee god. If wishes were horses then beggars would ride. He couldn’t be anyone else, just this pathetic failure masquerading as a competent Commander.

All afternoon his mind had gone in a circle, an endless loop in which he tried to find a loophole. He _wanted_ Gabriel. So very much. He wanted to please the other man, to be pleased by him, he wanted to give him everything and receive whatever he could in return. Why couldn’t his body cooperate?

Gabriel didn’t want him like this, broken. He’d made it abundantly clear that he’d never want to bed Cullen if Cullen didn’t completely want it himself. So tonight he’d either manage to rein his body in, to make it act as his mind and heart wanted it to, or Gabriel would be gone. Which was probably for the best - the last thing that Gabriel needed was this broken excuse for a human being, with a mage hating past to boot. The last thing Gabriel needed was _Cullen_. But _he_ needed Gabriel so very much…

He finally knocked to escape his circling thoughts and Gabriel opened the door so swiftly that it was as if he’d been waiting at the bottom of the stairs already. The Commander greedily took in the sight, the warm green eyes, the open smile, all directed at him. He didn’t have much hope that this wouldn’t be the last time, so he’d take all the memories he could get.

“Cullen,” the other man exclaimed, loud and clear, for the benefit of whoever might be listening in, “how kind of you to bring me these reports! Come on, supper is nearly served.”

His fault. If he hadn’t been who he was, Gabriel wouldn’t need to hide this. He got in without a word, grateful that he wasn’t required to reply for the pretence to hold.

As soon as the door had closed behind them Gabriel’s voice changed, warmer, lower, intimate and so less distant. This was how he always wanted to remember it.

"Hey, you. I was beginning to fear something had kept you and you wouldn’t make it tonight. You look like death warmed over. Can I help?

“I’m still fine, Gabriel.”

“Alright. Can I– can I kiss you?”

“You don’t always need to ask.”

“Is that a yes?”

Cullen kissed him as a way of replying, and it was like drawing breath. He didn’t want this to end - he’d fight to keep it, with everything he had, no matter the cost. He just had to make sure he was always _there_ , in the moment, to not let his mind wander off, and wanting Gabriel wasn’t a problem. He pulled the other man closer, a sound that was half growl half whimper escaping him, dropped the backpack unceremoniously on the floor and tangled his fingers in the Inquisitor’s hair.

Gabriel’s fingers were quick to make their way into Cullen’s own curls as well, making short work of undoing everything that went into taming them each morning. Cullen pushed closer, pinning Gabriel against the wall, trying unsuccessfully to replicate the same stance that had had him so comfortably marking the Inquisitor that day. He ignored everything else - the nerves, the headache, the nausea, the doubts - and focused on just this. Step by step. Breathe in, breathe out. How difficult could it be, even for a broken man such as himself, to will a simple erection into existence for the man he loved?

Gabriel broke the kiss gently, the tips of his fingers tracing the contours of Cullen’s face.

“Did you manage to bring what I asked you to?”

He swallowed. “I did.”

“Good. There are a couple of things I’d like to ask you, but only if you promise you’ll say no if you think they’ll make you uncomfortable. Alright?”

Saying no would be harder than allowing Gabriel to unreservedly do to him whatever he wanted, but Cullen acquiesced with a nod. He could do the difficult things as well. He was a grown man and a commander of armies. Difficult decisions were his daily routine.

Gabriel took him by the hand and up the stairs. The room seemed more cramped somehow, and it took Cullen a moment to process why; in addition to Gabriel’s bed and desk, competing for space with the table that had been set for them, there was a bathtub - a bathtub! - at the back of the room.

“The first question is if you’d allow me to wash your hair. I can have the water as warm as you’d like for you in a moment, and I have a few soapy bubbly orlesian things if you’d like to try,” a laugh at Cullen’s horrified look, “what? You couldn’t want to try the bubbly stuff? Fine, I have your standard soap as well. Anyway, I have all that, but I’d like to be the one to wash your hair, if you’d let me.”

“Alright.” That was easy enough to answer, to decide, with no effort at all. He had the notion that the next question wouldn’t be easy by any stretch of the imagination, judging by the way that Gabriel had let go of Cullen’s hand and was nervously twisting his own fingers. Then he seemed to make up his mind and smiled again.

“That’s that, then. How warm would you like your water?”

“And your second request?”

“That’s… Nevermind. Now is probably not the time.”

Cullen should leave well enough alone, he should take the reprieve from whatever shameful ending his own failures had in store for him, but he disliked seeing Gabriel like that, hovering between nerves and false cheer. Intensely.

“Gabriel,” he said simply, in a tone that brooked no argument, “your next request?”

Conflicted green eyes turned to his.

“It’s… I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

More forcefully now he called, “Gabriel. Please. Your request.”

Gabriel swallowed but didn’t look away. His voice was low, soft, almost breathless with barely contained nervousness.

“I wondered if you’d let me use magic on you.”

That was not at all what he’d expected. And surprisingly easy - far, far easier than what he would ever have guessed, had he thought to ask himself the question - to answer in the affirmative.

“Yes.”

“It’s alright if you don’t feel comfortable, I probably shouldn’t even have asked–”

“ _Gabriel_. Yes, I will let you use magic on me.”

“I… You haven’t asked what for.”

“That’s irrelevant. I trust you implicitly. Yes.”

Beloved lips on his and the comfort of a warm embrace. Every time it happened was as cherished as the first. Gabriel’s palm cupping his cheek, a thumb caressing his cheekbone just below the eye, above the stubble. His eyelids fluttered close.

“Thank you. If you feel even slightly uncomfortable just say the word and there’ll be no more magic, alright? But first the bath. How warm?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the need to point out - again - that Cullen's actions, the level of his reverence towards Gabriel are in no way healthy or good. There is no question that he loves Gabriel, that he would love him regardless of what he went through, but he despises himself a lot, and that tends to elevate everyone he cares for to unparalleled heights.
> 
> Gabriel, on the other hand, can be rather self-absorbed despite his best intentions, as evidenced by him not having realised what not talking to Cullen about why there was a need for secrecy would do to the other man's already shattered self esteem. I feel like giving him a walloping on the back of the head.
> 
> In other news, apologies for the time it took for this chapter to get out. I'm stuck on the best course of action a couple of chapters from now, but thought I'd already withheld this one long enough.
> 
> As always comments, reviews and criticism are all welcome.


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